


The Principle of Silver Lining

by fabula_prima



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childbirth, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Masturbation, Multi-perspective, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Disability, Pregnancy, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 58,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11343060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabula_prima/pseuds/fabula_prima
Summary: When the Breach finally closed, Brigid Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, was confident that her reign as a divine savior would be smooth and short-lived. Hardly a note in the history books.When Commander Rutherford found her buried in the snow, he was certain he was carrying her corpse.Confidence and certainty are of little use when the world's ending...





	1. C'est La Mort

**Author's Note:**

> Plot doesn't diverge from the canon too terribly much, but character circumstance does...almost immediately. I wanted a more fully developed Inquisitor, and as a disabled writer/high fantasy indulger, I'll always long for more visibly crippled characters in the genre. If its inclusion feels awkward or clunky, bear with it--it's non-normative, it's supposed to feel that way at first. I also wanted an alternative to magic, so we'll see how that goes over. Don't know how long it'll end up being, though I've got an end game in mind...just depends on how meandering the path gets.
> 
> Third-person past tense, with some perspective shifts and a fair bit of free indirect discourse.
> 
> First time posting fic here and I'm sans beta-reader, so comments are extra appreciated!

 

* * *

 

She wasn’t waking. Why wasn’t she waking? Perhaps they didn’t have the grand healers of Orlais on hand, but if the healer here was able to keep her alive, why could he not _wake_ her? Maker, what was it? Twenty-six healing draughts? Twenty-seven? She must have been composed of more healing draught than she was of her own flesh and blood. Twenty-seven healing draughts…would she even be the same? Of course not. None of them would.

It was his fault, he was sure of it. Granted, he hadn’t summoned the dragon or the dark elder god whatever abomination that haunted them, but he let her stay behind. _He_ should have stayed behind, fuck what the others insisted, what _she_ insisted. He might not have the mark on his hand, but he had a sword and armor and he could have spared her. What had come over him to muddle his reasoning? He hadn’t hesitated for a moment when she had proposed herself as bait. _Oh_ , but she had this particular way of stupefying, terrifying him when she was especially determined. He was no stranger to the leadership of strong-headed women, and it always seemed to have this effect on him. But now he was torn apart. When they found her sunken into the snow and he lifted her in his arms, she had gone limp. Her body felt so void of any strength that he couldn’t really be sure he was carrying a living being. _Maker_ , how it terrified him.

“Commander,” Cassandra snapped at him. “Will you stop pacing?” He look around to see he’d dug his boots all the way to the mud layer beneath the fresh snow. “There’s nothing to be done for her right now, but we could use your help with a plan.”

A heavy sigh and he walked over to the council and its companions. “A plan for what, exactly? 

Leliana pulled the hood of her robe up against the snow and began. “We have no way of knowing when Corypheus will return, but it could quite literally be at any moment. We need to gather information, send out scouts. I can’t get my spies on it until this storm let’s up, the ravens won’t make it anywhere.”

“Maker take your ravens, we need an attack plan,” Cassandra retorted. “With Brigid out of commission for who knows how long, we need to organize our forces and think strategically about—“

Josephine cut the Seeker off without looking up from her tablet. In the safety of Haven’s chambers, she looked as natural as the walls themselves, but out in the snow squall without a coat or even so much as a shawl, she looked absolutely out of place. “We should have done as I said and thought of a contingency plan long ago. Maker, putting all of our… _everything_ , on the shoulders of one woman.” She was angry, but her eyes betrayed a fear, too. She believed in the Herald as much as anyone could, but she was worried about her friend. “If we’re to have any chance of surviving, we need more forces. We have, what…a handful of leaderless Templars, soldiers, and untrained refugee volunteers? We should set out for Orlais at once. We’re near enough to the border and we need funding, we need—“ 

“No… _no_ Orlais.” Cullen was pinching the bridge of his nose. “For the love of Andraste, if you drag me to Orlais, I’ll leave the Inquisition altogether.” It was an empty threat, but he needed to put an end to the idea before it could gain momentum. “That being said, you’re all right. We need coin, we need training, we need information. But look around you—we’re little more than a collection of tents and a few fires being quietly smothered by increasing snowfall. Josephine will freeze overnight. We need a base.”

The three women looked at one another in silence until a wisp of a voice joined their conversation. “I may be able to help with that.”

Cullen turned to see the elf mage looking pristinely calm and comfortable with the chill weather. “There is a holding among the Frostbacks that might serve our purpose. It’s long been neglected and I’m sure is in various states of dilapidation. But it has all of the facilities we’ll need and plenty of room to grow. And to be quite honest with all of you, if Brigid doesn’t survive this, we have no direction. I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, but no one seems to be openly acknowledging this. She goes, our Inquisition falls apart.” Everyone present seemed flush with guilt…or fear. Toes dug aimlessly into the snow, eyes wandered, and sighs fell gently. But Cullen kept eye contact. He had already considered this outcome and returned from its hell.

“And if we want her to survive,” Solas continued, “we need to get her to Skyhold and out of this weather. If _you_ lot can’t agree on this, Varric and I will carry her there ourselves.” Varric had approached at some point in Solas’ monologue and nodded once, firmly, his arms folded across his barrel chest.

Cullen was taken aback. He’d never heard Solas speak with such impatience and determination. Everything with him was always a gentle inquiry. The answers to questions were simply new questions. Cullen usually struggled to relate to him for this reason, but now he admired the mage’s decisiveness. No one else seemed eager to respond, so he took the lead. “Of course, Solas. You’re offering us a miracle, it seems.” His eyes drifted to the tent that housed their dying great hope. _No, not dying_. There’s breath. There’s a pulse. “Do you know how to find this…Skyhold?”

The elf pointed the tip of his staff to the north. It glowed a gentle yellow in the midst of the muffled cotton snow. “I’ve visited it in the Fade more times than I can recall. If we pack up, we can start immediately before this storm gets any worse.”

 

* * *

 

Brigid flicked her eyes open in an instant. _Why_ was she so _hot_? It felt like summers in Ostwick as a very small, almost impossibly small child, when she’d spend too much time in the sun and the back of her neck would burn. It made everything else unbearably hot. She must have a fever. Touching the back of her hand to her forehead, she was surprised to find it cool. Or perhaps her hand was much too warm. She looked down to see a thick, downy, dull grey quilt. Ah, she was in a bed. And next to the bed, a lit stove glowed orange. No wonder she was so warm, she was fully clothed, blanketed, and being carefully cooked. In the next moment, she realized she was drenched with sweat. Perhaps they’d been trying to break a fever, which might explain her cool forehead and hot…everything else.

Sitting up and looking around the room, she tried to remain calm at not recognizing it. It was small and appointed with a modest hearth. The only visible window was broken and boarded up so that the occasional snowflake drifted in only to melt the next second. Why not keep a fire in the hearth? It would illuminate that menacing far corner much better. The room was triangular, she realized. How odd. Was that architecturally sound? Her head was spinning, she noticed. Perhaps it had been spinning since she sat up. Why was she so tired? It felt like she’d slept for ages.

Mid-thought, the corner’s dark shadows began to stir. She reached out for her sword but found only a candlestick. Very well, a blunt object will do. But before she could call out a warning, the figure stepped into the light of the stove.

“Commander?” She was not shocked as much as she was impressed. He had hid well in the corner given his height and hulking armor.

He took two heavy, hurried steps toward the bed and rubbed what looked to be sleep from his eyes. “Thank the _bloody_ Maker, are you really awake?”

She stared at him a moment longer as if to remember what he looked like. And to make sure she was, in fact, awake. She looked down at herself and everything looked to be there. “Seems like it.”

His expression of relief turned to gentle bewilderment with a furrow of his brow. “Is that a…candlestick? Were you going to maul me with a candlestick?”

The question made no sense. Oh, of course, her sword. Her not-sword. She sat the weapon down on the bed beside her, still not quite relaxed from her triggered fight-or-flight reaction. Always fight, with this one. “Sorry, impulse to grab something when a strange figure emerges from the shadows of an unfamiliar room you’ve just randomly woken up in.” As she spoke, she became increasingly incensed. Of course she would maul him with a candlestick if he weren’t…well…him.

“Commander, where are we? What happened? Maker, is everyone alright? Is Haven destroyed?”

He thought he might need to sit down on the end of the bed, but he pictured this action in his mind’s eye and imagined her panic increasing. He remained standing. “Haven is decimated, as you probably assumed. You seem to have…well it appears that you fell…through it? You were found just outside of a cavern. We’re still not sure how it happened. Or how you survived.” At this he paused. He had been hoping that he’d be able to say those words to her at some point: _you survived_. But he let himself be distracted for only a moment. “We lost quite a few lives. Threnn is gone. The council made it out in once piece, as did all of your companions, so far as we can tell. That Cole fellow was hard to pin down, but now that we’ve brought you here, we see him lingering every so often. It’s owed to him that we were confident you’d pull through. More than once, he whispered something about you being tired but determined to come back to us.” He paused at the phrase _come back to us_. Only now, when he was sure that she was alright, was he able to imagine what it would have been like for them without her. “I revise my judgment of him, as it were,” he finished. 

What a kind thing for him to say, Brigid thought. A bit of a mechanical soldier—and a stubborn one at that—but a decent man, she was learning.

“As for location, Solas led us here. Skyhold, he calls it. It’s a wreck, as you can see,” he said, nodding toward the boarded window. “But we needed a base. And it’s expansive. It will be perfect for training, there’s plenty of space in the armories—yes, _multiple_ armories—and the battlements are just—“ He broke off, noticing her queer face.

“Sorry, bit excited there…We’re in the Frostback mountains. Quite well walled off against invaders of any sort, backed right up to the range. So for the moment, most of the Inquisition feels secure. Even thinks we’ll start attracting more people to our cause.”

She nodded, feeling ever so slightly like she was back in a War Room debriefing. “Do _you_ feel secure?”

He pursed his lips and considered. “…Maker, no. There’s a raving megalomaniac on the loose and Thedas is quite literally falling apart. But I’m used to it now. Truthfully, I feel better than I have in weeks just seeing that you’re awake.” Only once he’d said it did he realize its truth.

For a moment, she thought she might blush. More kind things coming from him…ah, but then near death experiences will do that to a man. She saw it in her father more than once. “Wait, weeks? How long have I been asleep? 

He sighed as he mentally counted out the days…the weeks… “Two weeks and two days, if my math is correct.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, neither particularly bothered by the lack of conversation. Brigid needed to process, Cullen needed to plan. And the rest of the Inquisition needed to be updated. Cullen turned to leave. “I ought to fetch the council and a healer to come check on you. Can I get you anything, Herald?”

“No, but thank you. And don’t bother bringing them here, I feel quite well. Give me a moment. I’d like to get out of this bed and see my…see everyone. Check up on things.”

The Commander waited as she tossed off the blanket. She pressed her palms deep into the mattress behind her and frowned. _What in the Maker_ …“Odd.”

“What’s odd?” His inquiry was mumbled, as if it distracted him.

She gave another valiant push to stand, but failed again. “Cullen, I don’t think I can get up.” Had she ever called him by his name before? Her thighs felt leaded down. Her knees seemed locked. Her feet were numb. Not the pins-and-needles kind of numb that came from sitting in the wrong position. Absolutely, utterly numb to any sensation.

“Here, let me…” He trailed off, approaching her. “You’ve probably weakened a good deal, stuck here in bed for weeks.” He stood beside the bed and lifted her arm onto his shoulder. A kind gesture, but his layers made a decent grip all but impossible. Nonetheless, she clung to him as best she could, confusion turning to concern. “Hold on, and let’s swing your legs around…there. Feet firmly on the ground,” he said, trying to smile in an awkward bit of comfort. The change in position made her intolerably dizzy. “On three, we’ll give it a stand. 

He counted out the numbers, lifted up, and felt nothing but dead weight. Her knees buckled and she fell back to the very edge of the bed, pulling him sideways.

“Void be damned, are you alright?” He had twinged his neck in his rush to catch her, but it was of little concern to him at the moment. She’d not been able to support herself whatsoever—light as she may have been to him, he felt every ounce of her. And then…Maker be cursed…she looked up at him. And he knew that he’d likely see this particular face of hers in his nightmares. The one’s where his friends were in danger and he was incapable of saving them. He could almost taste the panic coming from her, sharp and acrid.

“Cullen, something’s not…I can’t...they’ve gone bad, broken.” Her breath came in a staccato gasps, jumbled with quiet chokes and squeaks of panic. “How did…who _found_ me, what had happened? Maker, I feel like I’m going to pass…” She ducked her chin down and did not, in fact, pass out. Every ounce of energy in Cullen’s mind struggled to recalibrate with the turn of events. She was awake. She was supposed to be fine. But when she lifted her face again, her red cheeks were lined with tears. All fallen silently with eyes wide open that seemed to not even recognize his existence.

“Brigid, what’s happened? Are you hurting?” He sat on the bed just beside her and placed his hand delicately, ever so delicately, like a ghost of a hand, on her back. The gesture was clumsy, he was not a nurturer. He was a shield. He prevented the bad things from happening. But after they happened, he was useless.

Her stare was void, looking down at her legs, but her face had turned contorted. As if it had been tightly twisted a moment ago but had lost all tension and fell back to rest in the wrong order. She shook her head, and in a calm, hollow voice that cut straight through him, whispered. “I’m ruined.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Principle of Silver Lining" (Larkin Poe): https://youtu.be/XZQWBs_o1SE  
> "C'est La Mort" (Civil Wars): https://youtu.be/z50k367WgPs


	2. Sun It Rises

Being part of the Templar Order, Cullen had seen his fair share of Qunari, rare as they may be in the Frostbacks. Most of them, like Bull, were hulking, muscled warriors, broader than Cullen twice over. Even the women routinely towered over him. But the figure that approached the council was hardly any bigger than the Commander himself. With his slight hunch, he may have even been shorter.

“Commander, Sister Leliana—may I introduce you to Tamurak,” Josephine said, gesturing to the robed figure. “He is the healer I spoke of, from Val Royeaux. The specialist.”

The physician attempted a smile, but looked visibly uncomfortable with the expression, so he cleared his throat instead, trying not to make eye contact. “Thank you, Lady Montilyet, for your invitation,” he replied quietly.

Leliana extended her hand. “Thank _you_ , Tamurak, for coming. We are not so well-equipped here yet to handle this…situation ourselves.”

He let out a soft laugh and suddenly grew confident. “Not to sound rude, but even if you _were_ fully equipped, you probably wouldn't have a way to handle this situation.” It seemed to dawn on the healer that he had said something impolite. “It’s just that I…well…can you introduce me to the Herald?”

The councilors searched for some way to make the conversation more pleasant, but Cullen had already decided that it was hopeless and undoubtedly a waste of time. He took the lead and guided the healer to the small room that housed the Herald. “We are truly grateful for your talents. She doesn’t seem to be in any pain, but we’ve been concerned—“

“I appreciate the small talk, Commander,” the healer interrupted, “but I try to make it a habit to only gather diagnostic information first hand, from the patient. That way there’s no chance that I’ll absorb subjective or exaggerated details.” His voice harbored no ill-will. Perhaps he was just exceedingly awkward. Cullen was not used to being the more conversationally skilled person in an exchange, but it did not bring him any relief.

“Of course,” he responded blankly as they reached the room. The Commander knocked gently and heard the Herald bid him enter. “The healer from Val Royeaux is here.” Nodding toward the room, he clapped the physician on the back. “Just call if you need anything.”

An hour or so later, three-quarters of the council sat in the rubble of what might one day be the Inquisition’s Great Hall. Most of the windows were busted out and the ones that remained in tact were grimy. Plaster was crumbling, rafters had rotted, and the tapestries on the wall were either moth-eaten or mildewed beyond recognition. But the décor wasn't distracting enough, so Cullen sipped at a pint of mead. He’d heard the Chargers lauding its capacity to calm and relax them. He was more accustomed to wine and ale, but with neither available, he thought the sweet brew would perhaps help him take Haven and its tragedies off of his mind. It seemed that the years of lyrium use—and now his withdrawal from it—had dulled his sensitivity. But holding the mug was at least a tactile distraction and the steady sips gave him something to focus on.

He turned to Josephine. “So this healer…odd specimen. What’s his story?”

The ambassador tucked away a stray hair and scratched at her temple. It was clear that she hadn’t been taking quite the same level of care of herself since their arrival at Skyhold. The Commander recognized in her the same exhausting fidelity to hard-work and duty that he suffered from. “You saw him,” she said shortly. “A Qunari, but unnaturally small for his race. I suppose it made him an outcast among his people. He was neglected at first, and then actively shunned from his home. He moved to Orlais to study medicine…met a woman, had a child. The usual. Then his daughter fell from a tower, nearly to her death. He nursed her back to life, but she would never walk again. So he devoted his life to accommodating her needs and making her mobile again. He’s developed treatments and equipment and all sorts of things. The daughter is now a success—a tutor to a wealthy family in Val Royeaux.”

The back-story gave Cullen a great deal of hope. “Mobile? How so?”

“He made the girl a device of sorts—a seat that can be enchanted and will hover off the ground, I believe. With some training, the Herald may be able to make use of one in much the same manner.” Josephine typically sounded like she was fully informed regarding everything she talked about. But Cullen sensed some hesitation in her voice, as if even she were mystified.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he admitted, goading her for more information.

“I do not think they are common. People who can’t…well, people in the Herald’s condition are often…”

“They are abandoned,” Leliana said matter-of-factly. “In most circumstances, they are a burden on their family or community. Or they themselves are so grief-stricken that they lose the will to continue on.” Silence. “It is sad…but it is a fact. And never mind the costs of care.”

Josephine attempted to lighten the mood. “This will not be the case for our Herald. She is far too important to us to abandon in such an uncivilized manner.”

Leliana traced spirals onto the worn oak of the table at which they sat. “In theory…we don’t need her to walk. We need her mark. And we need her leadership.”

“ _Maker_ , Leliana, why do you continue like this. She’s not a tool for us to use,” Cullen burst out.

“Perhaps not,” Leliana snapped, “but she is a defender of Thedas. There is a reason why she’s practically leading the Inquisition. She is a symbol of hope. The prayers of the common people are in her capable hands. Her hands are…now less capable, so to speak.”

Before Cullen could retort, Tamurak approached them, shaking his head. “She’s a remarkable woman,” he said, shuffling through a stack of papers he’d been carrying since he walked in. “The key right now is emotional support. Physically, she’s fine. Well,” he added, noting the council’s unanimously arched eyebrows, “she can’t _walk_ …or even stand. My professional assessment is that she was too damaged before you found her to fully benefit from healing draughts. But by the looks of it, she’s healthy, otherwise. Quite strong, in fact. Steady pulse, clear breathing, lucid. I gave her a copy of this, I’ll give you one too,” he said, proffering a scroll to Cullen. “I assume you have an artificer and an enchanter on hand?”

Cullen nodded and unrolled the paper to see a diagram. The seat Josephine had described. It was little more than that, actually. A seat without legs or arm-rests. Three flat planes: one vertical, against which her back could rest, one horizontal for her to sit on, and one angled downward, presumably to support her legs. The supplies seemed common enough.

“I’ve explained to her how it works. And I gave her a list of exercises to help her maintain what strength she does have. There’s not much more I can really do for her, but I’ll return next month to check her progress.” He tucked the rest of his papers and instruments into a slight leather satchel and nodded to each of the counselors in turn. “Now, thank you for your hospitality. I must be going.” The Qunari turned on his heel and stepped with more purpose than Cullen had ever seen toward the large front doors.

“Ser Healer!” he called out. The Qunari spun around, startled, and looked about like he had anticipated dropping something. Rather, Cullen had a question. “You said she was a remarkable woman. What convinced you?” 

“She laughs a great deal. That would be remarkable in the midst of this apocalyptic chaos if she _weren’t_ suddenly crippled. In her state? She is positivity…hope, incarnate.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Warm. Again so warm. Nicer this time. Warm and heavy and she was wrapped in it. She felt a soft thumping behind her shoulder. Steady breathing against her ear, a calloused palm at the base of her ribcage, its rough texture catching the tightly woven silken threads of whatever she was wearing. Her legs shuffled smooth beneath the cool sheets and she was happy._

She woke with a start, sat bolt upright in her bed, and pressed her hand to her chest, as if it would stop her heart from bursting out of her. An undeniable pain. And then she realized her own fingertips were digging bruises into her skin. Releasing her grip from her chest, she tested her legs. She was awake enough to know that the thumping and breathing and heavy warmth of the stranger in her dream clearly weren’t real, but she could have sworn that the sensation in her legs had returned. Like the pressure of unused energy might tear her skin open along some invisible seam down each of her thighs. She willed movement with all of her might. Nothing happened. It would still take some getting used to, but she was ready to be used to it already. The ghost of a stinging sensation faded from her legs and the early morning glowed gently into her quarters reminding her once more that her troubles were hers alone—the world must go on, and so would she. _A body is just a body_ , she had begun telling herself in the mornings. _It houses me, it is not me._

It was too early in the day to ruin it with melancholy, so she focused on looking around. Her newer room was much homier than her last. Only one of its windows had been broken and someone had fixed it right away. There were plenty of bookshelves, full of strange titles, and a lovely balconies along two sides of the outer wall—perks of a corner room, Josephine had told her. There were loads of stairs leading up to the room, making it very romantic in an old-fashioned sort of way. But it struck her as ludicrous, given her new mobility woes, that they’d give her such an inaccessible room. She was sure to emphasize that lack of pragmatism to whoever would listen, meaning only to make a joke, and instead garnering saccharine sympathies from the numerous new inhabitants of Skyhold. _Oh you poor dear. I bet you’ll miss hopping up those stairs._ It was insufferable, tested all of her patience. People’s pity would be her undoing before anything else would. But Varric turned out to be a fine artificer and crafted the handy seat that the Qunari healer had told her of. Dagna was so kind as to enchant it. It took some training and focus and lots of time spent thrown to the floor, but within three weeks, Brigid was floating—Maker’s mercy, _floating_ —amid Skyhold. She felt a bit like a mage, in all honesty, what with having to manipulate the device mentally. “Through _energy_ ,” Solas had corrected her more times than she could count. It was marvelous, though Brigid maintained some reservations. It was great on flat surfaces and did well enough on rolling hills. Stairs were rather jerky, as it seemed to register each step as a brand new surface. Mountains were impossible, but truth be told, mountains wouldn’t have been possible much longer any way, what with her rough treatment of her knees all her life. But she tried to treat the whole endeavor like horseback riding—something she could learn to be graceful at, if it did not come naturally—and she assured herself that her concerns would dwindle in time. Besides, there were much more important matters to which she must attend.

After a quick breakfast and a slightly less quick moderation of an argument between Cole and Sera over a prank, Brigid arrived for the morning war room meeting. The meetings had become a great solace to her, even when they were devoted strictly to stressful and life-threatening matters. Her three counselors were the most comfortable with her new mode of transportation, so the meetings were a time when she didn’t have to perform the pitiful cripple role.

Josephine tapped absent-mindedly at her tablet, halfway through a list of discussion topics. “The Arl of Redcliffe requests the Commander’s presence in the near future. Now that the mages and Venatori who took over the castle are dealt with, it seems he’s interested in striking up an alliance and has heard tell of Cullen’s trustworthiness. Commander?”

“Of course. I mean, of course I’ll be happy to meet with him. And I suppose I’m trustworthy, I just didn’t mean “of course” about it…it’s not like…” he shut his eyes tight and shook his head. “Very well, we’ll meet. Is there a preferred day?”

The Ambassador flipped about in her stack of papers, presumably finding a calendar. “We need you here tomorrow for the arrival of the barbarian recruits…” 

“Avvar,” Brigid corrected. “I understand there’s a history of conflict regarding them, but this clan seems reasonable enough that we ought to not insult them so immediately.”

“Dorian won’t be happy,” Leliana added. 

“Dorian will make snide remarks and then Dorian will get over it. We each give up some bit of happiness for this Inquisition. Everything worth having requires its sacrifice.” The Herald’s voice had this peculiar capacity to go grand and penetrating when she made these sorts of prophetic statements. Perhaps she was divinely chosen after all. 

“Very well,” Josephine said, capping her inkpot and setting her tablet onto the table. “Cullen can start out for Redcliffe two days from tomorrow.” All four of them nodded and began heading through the series of doors to the Great Hall…the windowed waiting chamber…Josephine’s open and airy study…Brigid cracked her knuckles—a terrible habit, she knew, but all of her stress seemed to gather in her hands. After a long meeting, loosening her fingers felt like the only way to make herself functional again. But Josephine had not ended the meeting. “We have one last order of business for today,” she said, gesturing toward the final door. “Herald, you first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sun It Rises" (Fleet Foxes): https://youtu.be/rQ5B-U6LwaA
> 
> (This runs a bit shorter than most chapters that I'll write, just an fyi!)


	3. My Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's my war...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lil bit of NSFW, I suppose?

The door opened and Brigid found Varric smiling to the right of the frame, Cassandra to the left. The main hall was filled. She spotted Vivienne, tall and regal. Dorian, smirking, arms folded across his chest. Solas, arms behind his back, making eye contact and nodding. Sera, wringing her hands and giggling. Blackwall, all honor and valor. Cole, hiding in a corner, shifting his weight back and forth between shuffling feet. Bull, unceremonious, massive hands on his hips, mischief on his face. Everywhere she looked, a familiar face. The blacksmith, the Orlesian trader, Master Dennet, Krem, Harding—darling Harding, always the Herald’s own herald, always a kind face. The apothecary, the quartermaster, the barkeep from the Herald’s Rest. All of Skyhold, gathered in what finally looked like it could be a Great Hall.

Cassandra stepped forward, her face softer than Brigid knew possible. “Herald. Now that we have settled into our new home, we realize just how close we all came to destruction. But we survived.” Grief and relief mingled in her glance for the briefest moment. “And we have you to thank for it.”

Brigid’s heart pounded painfully hard. Taking on bandits and demons and the occasional bear filled her with adrenaline, terrified her to her core. But she was always able to release the fear with a slash of her sword and a bash of her shield. Where should the energy channel itself when so many eyes look to you with reverence? She had never considered it.

But Cassandra continued, leading her through the crowd, up to the decrepit throne, all tattered velvet and tarnished bronze. “We realized that we need a leader…someone who represents our cause and our ideals. But then we realized that we already have a leader.” Here she stopped, and offered Brigid a sword. Could such a grand gesture really be directed at her? She took a tentative hold on the weapon. Heavy, impossibly balanced, and crafted with the most delicate of grips so that even her small hand could wield it with mastered control. “If you would accept it,” the Seeker continued, “we grant you the title of Inquisitor.”

 _Of course. Of course I will lead you, serve you all delightfully trusting people. But how could you possibly choose me? Look at my broken self. I only re-learned how to put my breeches on by myself two weeks ago. Who would ever take me seriously as a representative? Perhaps I could kill Corypheus by merely showing myself, sat in a magical floating device—Maker, he’d laugh himself to death, no doubt._  

“You all agreed on this?” came out instead. Half full of fear, she looked around, waiting to see a set of pursed lips on someone, _anyone_ , who had not agreed to the arrangement.

“No one is more capable,” Leliana assured her, suddenly at her side.

Cassandra turned and gestured toward the crowd. “It is dangerous to give any one person this power. But we are all bedfellows of danger now. And you are our best hope.”

How many hundreds of lungs held themselves paralyzed, awaiting her answer? How many hundreds of eyes refused themselves so much as a blink while she sat, slack-jawed and trembling?

“Inquisition!” The Commander roared. He fulfilled his title. “Merchants! Traders! Refugees! Soldiers! Do you vow, here and now, to follow your Inquisitor, wherever she may take you?”

_Yes. Yes!_

He glanced back to Brigid with the ghost of a smile before turning to the crowd and roaring again. “Do you trust her?”

_Ay!_

“Does she have your sword? Your shield? Your bows and staffs?”

The cheers came more incoherently now, peppered with expletives, stomps, and whistles. 

The Commander unsheathed his own sword and raised it over the crowd. “Then fight for your Defender, with all of the heart in you, and history will remember you!”

Maker, she never knew he had this talent. She’d heard men give rousing war speeches before, but they were always bloodied with talk of severing heads and slicing flesh. The Commander’s oratory was gallant, earthy, decent. He spoke to the common people and nobility alike, smoothing the crowd out into a coherent force of focused, impassioned energy. And he was well aware of it, _that smirk he’d offered her after his first roar_. For all of his self-deprecation, he was pure confidence when it came to commanding armies. The adrenaline flowed through her, a surge of blood to her head, inciting her chest to swell, her resolve to turn hard and fierce. Look at the team she had drawn together. Her cunning spymaster, her charming ambassador, her valiant commander. For a brief, glorious moment, she felt worthy of every good thing that had happened to her in life, and she raised the sword forcefully, straight and tall above her head, above the crowd. “I will be your Inquisitor!” she cried out. The cheer was deafening, it boomed in her ribcage, nearly frightened her. “I will defend you!”

The energy in the room was palpable—thunderous applause, concentrated body heat, hearts upon hearts pounding to some primitive rhythm. It made perfect sense now, how tyrants were formed. Should she lose herself in this feeling, it would be the easiest thing she’d ever done to become drunk with power. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and lowered the sword. A silence melted heavy among the crowd and she edged forward.

“When I was made Herald,” she began, more tentatively than she herself had even expected. “I questioned the title. How should I know the Maker’s plans for me?” The crowd stood in rapt attention. “I did not feel like a prophet of something divine. I felt like a common woman…who wanted to help save the world. That is all we are, here, and as far as I’m concerned…that is more important, more _telling_ than titles or fates. Flesh and blood people, coming together, to take matters into their own hands. To save the things that make their lives worth living—their husbands and wives, their children, the friends that they care for, the _homes_ they have built, the lands that they nurture.” The words came so terrifying naturally to her that she could hardly believe them as they spilt from her mouth. “As Herald, I felt unworthy of my position. I longed for some way to prove to all of you—and to myself—that I was the right choice. And then Haven…” she trailed off here, looking to Cassandra, of all people, for a sense of support. When the Seeker flared her nostrils and nodded, Brigid’s resolve redoubled. “You know what it took from us. And, well…” she let out a chuckle and gestured to her own seated figure, “you can see what it took from me.” The silence deafened her, the wide eyes staring up at her stole the breath from her lungs. But still she spoke. “I will not stop. This is my opportunity to prove to all of you that I will. not. stop. The evil in this world can take my shelter. It can take my supplies. It can take my legs.” The lump in her throat, Maker, _what was she saying_? “Corypheus be _damned_ , it can take my hands, too. It can take my arms. It can take the eyes from my face!” she screamed, “but I will not stop defending you.”

Silence. Hearts thumping. 

Then roaring. Her blood pulsed through her body so forcefully that she felt her heart beating in her fingertips, her navel, each hair follicle on her scalp. The Hall was filled with sound, and she scanned her frantic eyes to find her companions. They rushed up to meet her from the fringes of her hazy field of vision. Blackwall, solid and good, knelt before her to formally offer his large great sword. It pulled her back to reality. “Friend,” Brigid cooed with a smile, “please, there’s no need.”

The Warden looked up from his hunched position. “I will do it anyway.”

Dorian bowed only his head, “I won’t be getting on my knees, _Inquisitor_ ,” he informed her, lifting his head and smoothing his mustache. “But I am forever yours, nonetheless.”

“And you’ve got the Chargers, boss.” Bull pushed his way through and ruffled her hair. “Krem nearly wet himself in excitement, you make a rousing speech.”

“I meant it,” she said, the sincerity in her voice steady enough to carry the weight of the whole Inquisition. “And I will never be able to repay you all for your services.”

“Oh, shove off, ya sap.” Sera elbowed Brigid ever so gently. “We know what we signed up for. But I’ll be cashing in me favors, I promise ya that, if it makes ya feel better.”

Behind her fortress of friends loomed the entirety of Skyhold, shambling impatiently to line up and approach her. As each companion congratulated her and shuffled off, Brigid remained, engaging openly with each of the Skyholders that wished to speak with her. It became a rather long day of acknowledging everyone’s thanks and promising them hope in return. It was gratifying, to be sure. But it was also exhausting. She could sense the orange warmth of dusk coming from the large window behind her when she heard her new title shouted.

“Inquisitor!” A gruff, impatient voice called to her from one of the side doors. The Commander, strode up to her, sober-faced, his armor clanking. “You’re needed in the armory, there was a miscommunication about…sheaths.

Sheaths. Bloody Andraste, was this her life now? “And it needs _my_ attention, Commander?” Her emphasis on his title was not lost on Cullen. By all accounts, the issue was squarely within his realm of responsibility. Or the new quartermaster’s, at least.

“It’ll make more sense when you…we get there,” he said, opening his eyes widely at her and gesturing to the line of remaining Skyholders that they disperse themselves.

A muttered “very well,” and she followed him. He took the wrong door. “Commander, what’s going on? This isn’t the way to the armory.”

“Not the _fastest_ way,” he corrected.

“Granted…” she said in a huff. “But sheaths? _Are_ there sheaths? Because that’s really all I care about. As long as our men aren’t traipsing into battle with naked swords swinging about, I really don’t care what—“ She stopped, awe-stricken.

He had led her to the northernmost battlement where a large table had been crafted out of mismatched desks. All around the space sat lamps. Maker, was it already evening? She’d missed her lunch. And around the table sat her companions. All twelve of them. A mottled crew.

“We thought we should celebrate, just the handful of us, properly.” Vivienne was elegance incarnate, spreading her arms out as if to display the veritable feast before them.

Brigid settled into the only open seat, between Varric and Cassandra. The dwarf leaned over to her. “It was Ruffles’ idea.”

“Perhaps,” Josephine said coyly, “but everyone had a hand it making it happen. You deserve it, Inquisitor… _Brigid_ …after all that you’ve done for us.”

Braised ram shanks, salted herrings, rich herbed potato cakes, asparagus roasted with garlic and sweet cream butter, a soup that was simultaneously cheesy and tart, an assortment of ripe berries, and impossibly light lemon sponge cakes. The food was indulgent, but simple. Or perhaps Brigid had just needed a decent meal more than she even realized. She set her fork aside long after she was full and took a generous gulp of an almost honeysweet wine. “Who is responsible for this remarkable spread?” she asked, suspecting Vivienne but struggling to reconcile all of the dignified grace with kitchen work.

Nonetheless, the enchantress gestured. “Varric and I put the menu together, but the kitchen staff did the wondrous job.”

“With the exception of the sponge cakes,” Solas interrupted. “They are a _personal_ treasure of mine, their recipe taught to me by a kind hostess years ago. I refuse to let anyone else make them.”

Brigid realized then that, for all of her comfort with her companions, she still only knew the most basic information about them. The notion of Solas baking would never have occurred to her, and yet the delicate cakes were an edible miracle.

The feast lasted into the small hours of the night, and she should have been exhausted when she retired to her room. But her mind was too alert. The day had been so magnificent that it seemed a shame to end it with the mundanity of merely falling asleep. Entering her chambers, she caught a glimpse of herself in a smudged mirror that Josephine had sent up.

As a child, she had been rail thin, wrapped in springy muscle built from endless days climbing trees and sparring with her brothers and swimming until her fingers were wrinkly prunes. Her midsection filled out as she grew up, but her arms and legs always remained spindly and tough. Now, she could already tell that her legs were softening from disuse, her calves no longer carved but rounded. _Just a body_ , she thought. She stared herself in the face for the sake of familiarity. Her mossy eyes looked a bit more hollowed than she remembered, but in their defense, they had seen much in the last few months. Her cheeks remained rosy, which comforted her greatly—even if it were just the result of the delightful wine that Dorian had tracked down. Still slender necked—something her mother told her was her greatest bit of grace. Brigid always thought it looked like a weakness, too fragile. But that was the warrior heart in her; the same warrior heart that praised the Maker for small breasts. She never needed to bind them beneath a breastplate like the other women she sometimes fought with. Boys had teased her, of course, and called her a little boy, but she decided they were all pricks anyway, more than once telling them they would be so lucky to have access to anyone’s tits. And when her mother lamented her unwomanly figure, Brigid decided it was a blessing that would keep away odious, lusty suitors. This is all to say that Brigid had determined her comfort with her body at a very young age—she was a fighter and had a fighter’s body. She never anticipated having to come to terms with an entirely different body at twenty-eight. 

Too tired to negotiate self-esteem, she shuffled out of her Inquisitor’s garb and into a loose tunic before slipping into bed. It seemed like ages since she’d woken in it at the first light of day that morning. The dream that she’d startled from came back to her as a series of fuzzy sensations…the heavy palm on her stomach, the gentle breathing beneath her ear. How long had it been since she had allowed herself the release of self-care? Too long, she suspected, as the very thought bloomed heat in the roots of her belly. She drug her fingertips in languorous spirals around her navel, minutely aware of the downy fine hair that surrounded it, imperceptible to all but her own experienced touch. She needed an image, something vague ought to do. _A bare, muscled back stretching after a long day sparring_. Something deep in her flexed gently. _A pair of heavy, solid arms holding his weight above her, rounded biceps stretching and forearms twisting, twitching_. “ _Maker…_ ” She reached her fingers lower, nails sifting through coarse curls. Not nearly as damp as she expected. She pushed away the troublesome idea that her injury had deadened more than just her legs, but a shot of panic tore through her stomach nonetheless. Alright, something more specific then. Who could she picture? This was the bit that made her feel guilty. Pleasing herself was a kindness—there could be nothing wrong in it, she was sure. But conjuring up someone else’s image usually felt indecent. She didn’t have their permission, it was an invasion of their privacy. Besides, she was so sensitively tuned that general images usually did the trick. But not tonight. Tonight, she would need a face. A voice. Right then, who would be most flattered? It was more consensual that way, she had reasoned with herself. Dorian, no doubt, even if she wasn’t his type. His image had slipped in once before and the mustache did wonders that time. And he liked attention so much that he fit perfectly with her preferred fantasized role of being on top. That upbringing of hers—all subservient obedience and passivity—had done a number on her. In her fantasies, she was the opposite—the initiator, the talker, the domineering. She closed her eyes and imagined the Tevinter’s copper-skinned muscles spread out beneath her as she straddled…

_No._

Not anymore. Oh Maker, the accident. Her position would have to change, quite literally. She would have to be underneath. Dorian wouldn’t work any more, she needed someone more commanding. Bull? The thought of a sexual encounter with Bull frankly terrified her. The man was massive and lumbering and…no, the horns were distracting, even if the arms were incredible. Blackwall? A snigger escaped through her nose. Darling Blackwall was a handsome man, no doubt about it. And fit, she was certain, what with swinging around his greatsword. But he was too…serious. Too noble. _Bother it all, alright…try generalizations again._

A soldier. There were lots of soldiers training around Skyhold. She started back at her navel again with one hand, and rubbed the thumb of her other under the subtle curve of her right breast. _A soldier, her love, coming to her bed after a perilous battle, armor already removed, undershirt scored and spotted with blood. Yes, billowy undershirt hung from his broad shoulders as he kneels on the bed before her. “Thank the Maker, you returned_ ,” she whispered to herself. Always a talker. Fingers moved from her navel to her slickening folds. It was working. Her other hand squeezed gently at her breast. _Tree trunk thighs flexing as he worked his way up the bed. Thick, muscled arms encircling her with love and warmth, a calloused thumb and forefinger taking her by the chin and pressing her mouth against his_. Maker, had her lower lips ever swollen like this before? Soft and tight in contrast to _his hard shaft now pressing against her thigh. The image of its outline in tight leather breeches_ made her squirm. Now both hands tended to her sex, one dragging the length of her slit, the other applying pressure to her mound. The pressure was key, the illusion of weight. Once, it had been the illusion of her weight pressing down into her fantasy partner, but this was new. _His weight bearing down on her very core as he filled her and pressed their chests, their faces together for a hungry, messy kiss_. Oh…just a bit more pressure…ohhh, _thick knuckled fingers tangled roughly in her hair as he groans_ …a quick flick of the bundled nerves made hard with arousal and…and..AND…sigh… The release was always quiet; inhaling back in, a choking gasp.

She flung her arms over her head, feeling both leaden and featherlight as she lay flat on the down mattress. She kept her eyes closed and continued on to the next bit of fantasy. She didn’t always do this part, but when she felt particularly, indulgently satisfied, she would imagine her lover lying next to her, cradling her in his arms from behind. This is how she would fall asleep. Sometimes, she would turn in his hold to face him, bury her nose in his chest. But always, real Brigid and imagined Brigid kept their eyes closed. She curled her body in on itself as best as she could. Sleep was creeping upon her, melting away the alert edges of her senses. Her eyes remained closed, here in Skyhold, here in reality. Her imagined eyes opened. They looked up to the face of her lover. The Commander looked back into them, drowsy-eyed, the half-dreamt spirit of a knowing smile the last thing registered before sleep took her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My Body" (Young the Giant): https://youtu.be/qQYpF2pCkLI


	4. Apple Blossom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of girls walk around in tears, but that's not for you...

_Blasted trunk._ The latch had gone bad and kept snapping open, no matter Cullen’s efforts to secure it. He understood why he ought to visit the Arl of Redcliffe. His birthplace was technically part of the arling, he knew Ferelden’s king, and he’d had passive encounters with Arl Teagan in the past. It would be in the Inquisition’s best interests. But Maker, he hated packing. Frustrated by the faulty hardware, he slammed the pommel of his sword against it, jamming it shut. “There,” he snarled at it, immediately regretting his action. He’d never be able to open the damn thing when they arrived in Redcliffe.

“Commander, you’re needed in the War Room,” came a squeaking voice. One of the newest recruits to Cullen’s forces. The boy, thirteen or fourteen at best was hardly more than a twig, but he had touched Cullen with his determination to join the Inquisition. Thinking better of allowing his beatings as part of the armed force, he made the boy—Samwell—his “head squire.” A position that didn’t exist, in any official manner, but which suited the young man and the Commander alike.

“Very well, thank you Sam.” It seemed to please the boy when Cullen called him ‘Sam,’ evidenced by his puffed out chest when he walked away. The Commander reflected on being called “Cul” by his superiors in the Order those many years ago, and understood immediately the appeal of an authority figure thinking you familiar enough to call by a nickname.

One last huff at his trunk and he departed his office, locking the door behind him. The autumn air stung his face, but braced him otherwise. He made his way across the battlement and into Solas’ quarters, nodding at the elf mage who sat at his desk. He had offered to take the roundabout way to the War Room so as not to disturb him, but Solas said it was no trouble, so long as it wasn’t the early morning. A living body passing by every once in a while kept him grounded, he claimed. He already had to intrude into Josephine’s space on the way there, so Cullen figured he might as well make it a social outing, usually opting for the Solas route.

When he finally arrived at the War Room and opened the doors, he found only the Inquisitor present. At the sound of the hinges, she nearly jumped out of her seat.

“Commander!” she startled, clearing her throat and tugging at the left cuff of her vestment. “Sorry, I assumed I was early enough for a few minutes to myself.”

Cullen frowned ever so imperceptibly. Not out of sadness, but of surprise. “No, my apologies. Would you like me to wait out—“

“Oh! Maker, no…I didn’t mean that I was _expecting_ the few minutes to myself. Only that I…I just didn’t anticipate anyone else arriving so soon. Please,” she said, gathering her thoughts and calming, as if on cue, “do come in.”

He did as she bade and shut the door softly behind him. Approaching the table, he placed both hands palm down, resting all his weight on them, as he studied the map. He looked up to ask her a question and upon seeing her, felt very suddenly, very acutely aware of the fact that he was standing while she was sitting. Trying to hide the realization from his face, he made to scratch at his forehead, and sat, rather awkwardly, in the chair behind him.

“Commander.” Her response was immediate, her voice reprimanding. “Please…don’t sit on my account.”

 _Andraste save me, I’m a real nuisance._ He stammered. “No, I wasn’t…I just thought it might be nice to get off my feet.” He was afraid to look up at her, but braved it nonetheless.

“Please, Commander, spare me.” Her tone was a bit stern, but her body language betrayed to him that she might just be teasing—chin tipped up, a thin, sad smile playing on her lips. “In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never once _sat_ during a War Room meeting. You stand, hands rested on the table, with such severity that you look like you’re trying to break it in two.”

“Well I…” he was bumbling, tripped up by her keen observation of his behavior. “That’s not fair, I…I…don’t have such a pointed read on you.” He guessed that humor might be the best way to wriggle out of his fumbling. He guessed right.

“Fair point.” The Inquisitor chuckled to herself. “In all seriousness Commander…” He noted that the transition sounded quite like a question and nodded to encourage her. “I’ve come to cherish these War Room meetings. Since the injury I—well, most people treat me quite strangely. Lots of pity and sudden movements out of my way.” He wondered if he ought to say something clever, but thought better of it and sat in quiet appreciation of her candor. “But you, Josephine, Leliana…you don’t behave that way. Perhaps its because we’re forced to be so close, spend so much time together. Maybe the shock has worn off for you. Whatever the reason, you all treating me the way you do…it’s invaluable to me. I’d be gutted to think you pity me, Commander.”

He thought for a moment. He certainly didn’t pity her, she was so far above his rank in terms of…well, just in terms of her existence, in his eyes, that pity had no room to register. But simply saying he didn’t pity her felt trite. “It seems the Inquisitor title has made you more frank.”

Another chuckle drawn from her. “Perhaps…” And then gravity. “But really, don’t sit on my account. Go about your creature comforts.”

His next action felt monumental. Each had its advantages, each its perils. Ultimately, he remained seated. “I thought I was quite clear, Inquisitor. I want to sit…if you’ll allow me the small freedom.”

He awaited her reaction. Laughter? That would be alright, laughter he could gauge. A scoff? Sarcasm, perhaps? A roll of the eyes, that! That would be well worth it. Oh Maker, what if she cried? His sisters sometimes cried for no reason at all, it always broke his heart. She chewed at her lower lip. _Oh blast it all, she’s going to cry._ “Alright, Commander…” Her eyes connected to his, void of tears, but full of surprise. “…as you wish.”

* * *

Brigid wondered if it were possible to die of suspense. Demons, dragons, all sorts of terrible monsters seeking out her destruction, and she would die in the War Room of a heart attack, waiting for her Spymaster and her Ambassador to break the tension between herself and the Commander. He was utterly clueless, of course. Making gentle jokes and impressing her terribly with his decision to sit after all that nonsense she started up… _Maker, such a fool I am, goading the poor man to stand?_ She, on the other hand, was acutely aware of her use of him—or rather, his image—last night.

Josephine and Leliana arrived together, apparently having already breached some topic or other meant for the meeting.

“If we want Caralina out of the picture, it would be no trouble to remove her. Her marriage is tenuous,” Josephine suggested.

Leliana nodded. “And if we want Monette gone, I can have my people convince her to join the Chantry. She is much better suited to that life, honestly.”

“Care to include us, ladies?” Cullen asked. The fact that he remained seated, even at their entry, did not go unnoticed by Brigid.

“A successor in Lydes must be chosen. It has gone without direct leadership since the previous Duke’s death during the Orlesian civil war—“

Leliana interrupted. “There are three options, all of which would serve our purposes differently. We may have enough sway to—well, not directly choose the successor…but to gently guide it.”

Brigid had little interest in meddling in the affairs of a duchy she knew practically nothing about. Small missions to save villages or collect resources— _that’s_ where their attention ought to be focused, where she felt most comfortable. But she understood the importance of political influence, so she sat back as a spectator while the advisors debated amongst themselves. _Did the Commander always squint when he was listening intently?_ She shook the intrusive thought away, irritated by its distraction. She wasn’t sure if she had dreamt of him last night, in addition to…well, to employing his unwilling services, _Maker, she was a cur_.

“Inquisitor?”

Brigid looked up to see all three advisors staring at her expectantly. She’d not been listening and felt like a child again, when her tutor would catch her daydreaming and reprimand her inattention. “My apologies. Thin sleep last night has me a bit distracted.”

“No trouble,” Josephine said, unceremoniously, which stung. Not even a gentle _tsk_. “What do you think of Lydes?”

Again, she felt like a child without an answer to her tutor’s question. “Honestly…I don’t know much about it. I support whichever successor would offer its people the most benefit. And I leave it to more informed minds,” she finished, gesturing to her advisors, “to make that judgment.”

Cullen leaned forward. “Not whichever one would benefit our cause the most?”

Worried that she had answered incorrectly, Brigid took a moment to consider the consequences. “Not necessarily. If the people of Lydes will benefit most from our triumph, then a successor that assists with that would be best. Perhaps that _is_ the case. But our benefit is of second priority to the benefit of its citizens.” Seemed a reasonable enough answer, she thought.

The others thought so as well, glancing at one another with suppressed smiles. “Very well,” Leliana said, moving her iron totem to the spot on the map representing Lydes. “We will try to dissuade Lady Monette first.” Nods around the table made the decision silently official.

“That brings us to the most difficult bit of business,” Josephine said, placing her quill gently across the top of her tablet and taking a deep breath. “New rifts are opening nearly every day. If we have any hope of healing the breach fully, we have to start taking care of these.”

Brigid’s stomach dropped. She had been dreading this conversation since she first awoke after Haven. Her mark made her a necessity to the Inquisition, but her injury made her a liability. The idea of going into battle against demons without the capacity to really fend them off terrified her, but she had no illusions—she would track down every rift and make sure that she sealed it.

“We should start close to home,” she offered. The advisors looked at her uneasily and she knew they were wondering if she’d lost her mind.

“Look,” she burst out, “it won’t be as easy as it was before. Not that it was _easy_ before.” A sigh. “I’m a trained warrior. I go in with the vanguard, brandishing a sword, and I try to beat the hell out of whatever evil is in front of me. That tactic won’t work anymore, I’m not delusional.”

Tensions eased, but the advisors remained silent.

“I’ll have to be more strategic in picking my companions from now on. It’s no longer about whose company I prefer or who wants to visit whatever part of Thedas we’re traveling to. I’ll have to choose people that I can trust to consistently stave off the enemy while I close the rift.”

“It leaves you vulnerable,” the Commander noted, as if Brigid weren’t sharply aware of it.

“Of course. But I’m always vulnerable. We have to try it. There aren’t any alternates with searing green marks on their hands that we can send in as a replacement. I have to go, I have to take the risk. I’ve known that all along.”

The Commander chimed in again. “Train with my men for a few more days. Perhaps you can relearn some skills and—“

“Commander,” she began, her tone lower. “You can’t wield a sword effectively when you’re sitting down. No amount of training will change those physics. I used to train with daggers when I was younger. I’ll switch to them, they’re easier to use from my new position. Thedas can’t wait another week while I train. In another week, five more rifts will have opened, more people will have died. We’ve—I’ve wasted enough time already. You leave for Redcliffe today. I’ll head to the Hinterlands tomorrow to try closing a lingering rift or two. The next time we all meet together, we’ll have gained a new ally and closed a few rifts.”

She wasn’t paying much mind to Leliana and Josephine, but she knew that they supported her idea. They cared for her safety, of course, but they were more eager to prove the Inquisition’s value than she was. It was Cullen that needed swaying. And sway he did.

“Very well,” he answered with a sigh. “Try not to get yourself killed. And _promise_ me you’ll take Cassandra with you. I know Bull and Blackwall are hulking, but I have more faith in Cassandra than I do myself. It would put my mind at ease.”

“Lucky for you,” Brigid said with a gentle smile. “The Seeker was already on my list.”

* * *

Brigid thought it a bit odd that Cullen and his traveling party had decided to take off at sunset, rather than sunrise. In fact, it made absolutely no sense and she was going to get to the bottom of the choice. Or, at least, that was her rationale for making her way up to his office. In truth, she thought it very possible that she would die before she ever saw him again and she felt her recent behavior absolutely ludicrous. So she’d thought of him a bit scandalously one night, what of it? Was she such a child that she would let it get in the way of her professional relationship with her military advisor? Of course not. She was the fucking Inquisitor and it was time to be an adult. She would march—well, float, at least—into his office as he finished preparing for his travels and make sure he had the exact, correct perception of her. Only once she had arrived at his door did she realize that she hadn’t quite figured out what that perception ought to be. She could think about it for ages, until he himself opened the door to leave, so she decided to just see where the conversation took them. With two succinct knocks on the door, she took a deep breath.

“Not right now. Whatever the missive, there’s not time to take care of it before I leave.” His voice was calm, his logic sound.

She hesitated. Should she turn around and leave? Should she acknowledge that she’d heard him and apologize? “Sorry?” she squeaked out. Trial and error would be the method of the night, apparently. “Never mind.”

She heard one..two..three heavy steps and had to look up when the door swung open. This was perhaps the most consistently irritating thing about sitting all the time—unless the other person was a child, she was always looking up. Even Varric’s eye line rested above her. “Commander.”

“Lady Inquisitor! My apologies, I thought you were a messenger. Is everything alright? Can I help you?"

He seemed determined to use every possible phrase that one might use upon opening the door to someone unexpected. This awkwardness eased her mind, as did his attire. Brigid had never seen her Commander out of his armor. Simple breeches, a simple undershirt, and a thin brown overcoat that he either hadn’t buttoned yet or had decided to unbutton. Practical. Normalcy. She was comforted.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, I just wanted to apologize, before you left for Redcliffe. Before I forgot.” Brigid was sharply aware of his height as he blocked out most of the door-frame.

He stepped toward her, closing the door behind him, and gesturing that they ought to remain on the battlement. “What could you possibly need to apologize for?” A laugh veiled his question.

“Before the meeting earlier…I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Or make you feel uncomfortable. I’m still—“

“It’s quite alright,” he interrupted. They approached the crenelated wall with a foot’s distance between them. “I…I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through.”

A soft word that wasn’t pity. Brigid’s chest closed in on itself like a fist.

“Besides, I wasn’t uncomfortable.” He was staring out into the cool afternoon air as if he could will himself to see further than the horizon. “Well, for a moment, before I sat, I was keenly aware of the difference in height and that was uncomfortable. I suppose that’s why I sat.”

“Height?”

“You are my superior. We were preparing for a meeting. It seemed appropriate that we at least be at the same eye level.”

“You’re making fun of me.” It had taken her a moment to realize it, but when she did, it warmed her.

He loosed a closed smile and the scar splitting his top lip went white. “If you’d let me, I’d like to put you at ease about this whole…thing,” he said, gesturing at her seat. “But you’re fighting me tooth and nail.”

“You don’t find it tragic?” she joked. The conversation was coming more easily.

“Not at all. I mean, I have sympathy for your frustrations. It’s damn awful luck, at the risk of sounding trite. But in the Order, I saw plenty of men injured in battle. Or crippled by a bad lot of lyrium. I saw men who gave up and wallowed in what they had labeled their misery. And I saw others adjust their course and soldier on. You’re clearly the latter. Nothing tragic about that.”

“Maker, are you always so reasonable?”

He laughed. A genuine laugh from deep in his belly. “Yes, unfortunately. Varric and Bull spend a lot of time in the tavern encouraging me to be less so.”

“They mean well, I’m sure. But I don’t know if it’s wise to take advice from two men who expose so much of their…chest hair.”

Another rumbling laugh. “ _Maker_ …you know, your sense of humor might just be as valuable to our cause as that mark on your hand.”

“And your kindness as valuable as your work ethic, Commander,” she parried.

He winced at the compliment. “Cullen, please…just call me Cullen.” 

She met his eyes. The night that she imagined him lying beside her, she left the eyes empty. The mouth was precise—it struck her as his defining feature. But not until that afternoon did she really catch his eyes. They looked like puddles of whiskey in the saturated afternoon sun and were set deep, under a heavy brow. But the little wheat colored flecks in them brought intelligence to his gaze. “Alright…Cullen. Might take some getting used to.”

He nodded at her attempt, not quite smiling, but instead lifting his chin like he was satisfied. “You used it pretty comfortably once before. When you awoke in Skyhold and…you were frightened, I think. It slipped out casually.” She noticed he had terribly long eyelashes. Her cousin always said boys got the prettier eyelashes and Cullen’s supported that claim. Golden and dense, so dense she thought that the top and bottom sets must tangle together every time he blinks.

“I’m glad you were there that night.” Though she didn’t remember much about that evening, she did recall a sense of safety and credited him. “But why were _you_ there? Why not a healer? Or Mother Giselle?”

“Blackwall, Cole, and I took turns. You happened to wake on one of my nights.” He didn’t meet her gaze directly and instead became lost in contemplation. His face grew solemn and his shoulders squared—he had been leaning against the crenellation, but stood up straight and shook his head. “I shouldn’t have let you stay behind.”

“Like you would have stopped me?” she joked.

He was not joking this time. “Yes. I could have, I ought to have. I regret very little since coming to the Inquisition. I regret many of the things I did in my life beforehand, but only one thing since joining—“

“Cullen, I was determined. I did what had to be done, there was no other option. It’s not your burden to carry. You’ve brought only goodness to our cause.” Brigid could feel the ludicrous grandiosity of what she was about to say, but took the risk anyway. “You’re the heart of this Inquisition.”

The weight of her claim made even the air seem denser. The Commander leaned back ever so slightly, his lips slowly parting. “That’s—“

“Commander!”

Spindly Samwell came jogging up to his superior, all determination. “The mounts are ready, Ser.”

Brigid rubbed the back of her neck and smiled at the young man. “I ought not keep you any longer.”

It seemed to take Cullen a moment to register what his squire had said and what Brigid was now saying. She waited for his response, but in the face of silence, ventured her hand to his chest, just below his shoulder. “The heart, Commander.”

He nodded, transfixed by her sincerity.

“Now...” she patted the spot where her hand had rested before letting it drop to her side. “…safe travels to Redcliffe. Send Arl Teagan my regards.”

Another nod and he snapped out of his reverie. “And you...be careful,” he managed. “If all else fails, put your trust in Cassandra.”

* * *

The road to Redcliffe was uneventful. A few bandits along the way. Straggler Templars antagonizing mages—or perhaps the other way around, it was impossible to tell nowadays. The occasional flicker of a queasy green spark in the distance would signal to him another rift. He resented no longer being in the field where he could help the Inquisitor get rid of these pests.

To distract himself, he reflected on the conversation they had just before his departure. _The heart of the Inquisition…_ it was a ridiculous notion to him. He was nothing more than a broken man trying to atone, he was aware enough of his imperfections to at least admit that. Besides, _she_ was the heart of the Inquisition. She made that quite evident with her speech to Skyhold. He had heard some rousing military speeches in his day, but hers had left him shaking at the knees, ready to smite all of her enemies with his bare hand, if need be. And the gentleness with which she had placed her impossibly small hand on his chest and smiled into his eyes just hours ago… _Maker_ , that was all heart and warmth and goodness. They were lucky to have her. Even if she hadn’t become the Inquisitor. If she were just a barmaid at the Herald’s Rest, warming his aching bones with a heady drink and a soft joke, she would still be treasured. He worried about her, too. She seemed to be taking her injury incredibly well, testing out her limits and going to whatever necessary lengths to accommodate her surroundings to her new abilities. But there was a tightness developing around her mouth and he wondered if it had something to do with the pity she spoke of earlier in the day. No doubt, people looked at her differently now, but he had trouble imagining how someone could pity such a strong, dauntless, beautiful woman. _No, uh…not beautiful, that’s not what he’d—she was beautiful, but that’s not what—beautiful in the divine sense, he meant, but it had sounded…_ He scowled at himself, smelling the stench of his own idiocy.

When he arrived at Redcliffe Castle, it was not the Arl that greeted him, but the King himself, Alistair Theirin.

“Commander Cullen Rutherford, as I live and breathe!”

The King glided down the steps with ease as Cullen dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to a stable boy who had spontaneously appeared. “Your highness. I hadn’t expected to see you.”

“Come, brother, drop the titles,” Alistair said, embracing Cullen in a spirited hug. “We are cut from the same cloth, you and I. Act like it.”

Cullen couldn’t help by smile. He had missed the camaraderie of the Order fiercely. It was perhaps the only thing about that life that he missed. The Inquisition was becoming comfortable day by day, but Alistair was a pleasant reminder of the friendly ease of brotherhood. “Where is Arl Teagan?”

The two men strode toward the gate of the castle at a leisurely pace, allowing Cullen to observe the rubble of its recent attack. Alistair seemed unfazed by all of it. “He was called to Denerim on business. It seemed urgent, so I insisted he go. He requested that I stay here until he returned, knowing you’d be arriving soon. He ought to be back by tomorrow at the latest.”

Cullen nodded as they crossed the threshold into the castle. “Maker…it looks worse than Skyhold.”

“What? Oh, yes, it’s in an awful state. But many of the private chambers are in fine shape. It’s a shame, what happened here. Though I’m sure you’re not surprised. I heard the Venatori pestered your Inquisition as well?”

“Pestered is a bit tame,” Cullen responded, laughing through his nose in an attempt to stave off his melancholy at remembering that night in Haven. “We lost dozens of innocent people at their hands. Merchants, maids, children…nearly our Inquisitor.”

Alistair’s face lit up at her mention and he gestured for them to sit across from one another at a small table in what was once the main hall of the castle. The chairs were a bit uneven and a large gash marred the surface of the table, but just being in Redcliffe made Cullen feel at home.

“Tell me of her. Is she as fierce as the rumors report?” The King prompted gossip as he retrieved a flagon and a pair of small wooden cups.

“More so,” Cullen said, unaware that he was practically beaming. “And it was apparent the moment she strode into Haven.”

“You insinuated that she almost died there?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “The night the Venatori attacked, Corypheus followed just after them. We had a chance to evacuate the remaining civilians of Haven, but only if he were distracted. She insisted, of course.”

“Maker…” Alistair was rapt, nearly spilling the drinks as he poured. “She does that sort of thing often?”

“More often than I’d care for her to. It’s difficult to be the Lady’s sword and shield when she demands to put herself in danger.”

“A martyr?”

“No,” Cullen said, taking a sip of what he realized to be a brash red wine that tasted a bit like apple blossoms. “She has no intention of dying.”

“Sounds like perhaps she does if she’s come so close to it already.”

“That was…that was my fault. I shouldn’t have let her offer herself up as bait. And now she’s—“

“I thought you said she survived?” Alistair said, interrupting.

“She’s alive, but…she was badly injured that night. The healer seems to think…” Cullen paused here, suddenly feeling like his armor was too tight. Like he was divulging private information, even though it was quite apparent to the public. He cleared his throat and pushed through the tightness in it. “She’ll never walk again.”

Alistair slouched in his seat, tossing back what remained of his wine. “Tragic,” he whispered, staring down at the tabletop.

“Not at all,” Cullen bellowed, louder than he had meant to. His own conversation with the Inquisitor sprang back to life before his eyes. “What I mean is…she’s just as fierce as ever. Perhaps more so. Maker, she’s figuring it all out.”

Alistair was incredulous. “How? How in the Void will she fight all of this without walking?”

“I don’t know. But she’s doing it. It’s a marvel. She’s pulling all of these resources, all of these people…she draws solutions to herself like a magnet. I’ve never seen something so…”

“Fated,” Alistair finished.

Cullen let the word tumble around in his mind for a moment. At one point in his life, he’d been a deeply religious man, and remnants of that faith remained steadfast. Fated was an alright word for it, but it felt even more fundamental than the Maker. “I was going to say ‘natural,’ actually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Apple Blossom" (The White Stripes): https://youtu.be/6CMwGk22qHM


	5. Comeback Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You gotta try a little harder, you're the comeback kid.

As irritating as steps had become for Brigid, she had to admit that the spiraling staircase leading up to the library was fun to traverse in her enchanted seat. She had improved her dexterity with the contraption and learned how to wield her body weight with minute control so that her manipulation of the seat was much smoother.

She reached the top of the staircase and glanced around, letting the comforting vanilla scent of old leather and secreted vellum wrap around her. Just as she had anticipated, Dorian sat tucked in an oversized armchair, alternately licking his middle finger and flicking the pages of a dusty, well-worn tome. Without bothering to look up, he addressed her. “All these 'gifts' to the Inquisition and the best they can do is the _Malefica Imperio_? Trite propaganda. But if you want twenty volumes on whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, this is evidently the place to find it.”

“I didn’t know you were a history man,” she said teasing.

“What did you assume, then? Steamy bodice rippers?”

An easy laugh escaped her nostrils. “No, I didn’t take you for the type to care much whether or not bodices came off… _breeches_ , on the other hand—“

His eyes snapped up at her and one side of his mustache lifted as he smirked. “You’re a keen observer. I, apparently less so, because I can’t quite tell what you’re doing up here on such a fine evening.”

The sun had just finished setting, the Commander’s traveling party had set off shortly before, and all that remained for Brigid to think about was closing rifts. “I came up to see if we had any information on rifts…demons…really anything that might help me tomorrow. I’d like to be over-prepared.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m quite well versed in necromancy, I’ll be of great use. Assuming, of course, that you’re bringing me along. Which I’ve no doubt you are…”

“You’re under consideration,” Brigid answered with a smirk of her own. This particular mage was much more pleasant conversation than either of the other two in her inner circle. Part of her had sought out the library in hopes of bantering with him for a bit, just to take her mind off of things.

“Well, if that’s the best you can do, I suppose I’m at your mercy.” He slapped the volume shut and placed it on a half-empty shelf just beside him. “Now, are there any other libraries in this place? Surely there’s _something_ I can really sink my teeth into.”

“You’re always welcome to sift through the shelves in my quarters. Though much of what’s there is Tethras work.”

“Ah yes, the dwarven serialist. Perhaps now that I have a better connection, I can persuade him to write something a little more…to my liking. He’d have a sizeable audience.”

“Now there’s an idea.”

“What about you, Inquisitor?”

“What _about_ me?”

“Do you have a preference in… _novel_?”

Catching the mischievous tone of his voice, she sniggered. “I’ve a deep and abiding attraction toward men, Master Pavus. The more masculine, the better…unfortunately.”

“Mmm, my preference too. But why so unfortunate?”

“Do you not find they often end up being more insensitive?”

“Perhaps some…but not all of them. Blackwall’s a man’s man if there ever was one and he seems rather gentle.”

Brigid nodded in response and thought back to the recent evening when she tried conjuring Blackwall’s image. She stood by her previous opinion—gentle, sure, but a bit too stoic.

“Not your type, eh?”

“I prefer a little more approachability, I suppose.” 

“Do you like them strapping?"

She couldn’t suppress a grin. “And broad across the shoulders.”

“What’s more important: taut abs or taut ass?”

Brigid suddenly wished they were in the tavern with drinks in their hands. Despite having only known Dorian for half a dozen weeks or so, she felt stupendously at ease with him, no matter the topic of conversation. So she answered without hesitation. “Ass, no contest. A strong core is important, of course, but defined abdomens make me uncomfortable. Too…I feel like I’m seeing through their skin.” She shivered a bit.

“Chest hair?” he parried.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear about my love of masculinity.”

He leaned back, as if to allow space for her passion on the matter. “My apologies, Inquisitor. I see now you’re a woman who’s serious about what turns her on. That’s good. You should always get yours.”

She sighed reverently. “Yes…but it’s been far too long. Which is alright, I suppose, I’ve got more important matters to attend to than a love life right now.” The sickly sound of a crackling rift rang in her imagination.

“That will not do,” he said, concern spreading across his face. Brigid almost thought it was genuine. “Surely someone has struck your fancy.”

“Oh, I look around and see plenty of lovely looking men. And they’re all kind to me. But the title and all…it stifles… _everything_ , if I’m being honest.”

“What about our resident knight in shining armor?”

“Given the number of armored men around, that’s not very specific.”

“You know the one…golden hair…fur cloak…mysterious scar bisecting a delightfully pillowy top lip…”

There was no hiding the hitch in her breath from Dorian, but she kept her voice steady nonetheless. “I know the one…”

“Ah, looks like you’ve thought of the one, too. Pined after him?”

She sighed. There was little use in playing coy with the Tevinter. “No pining. Some fantasizing…one night…when _your_ image just wasn’t doing the trick.”

The look of genuine shock across his face would be tucked in her memory forever. “Maker’s tits, I didn’t know you had it in you. I’m immensely proud…and I’ll pretend that I didn’t satisfy you because you were too aware that you weren’t my type. But more importantly, what will we do about this?”

“Precisely nothing,” she said matter-of-factly. “It would be highly inappropriate.”

“More inappropriate than fingering yourself to the midnight conjuration of your Commander?”

“Yes. That was one private moment that is of no consequence to the Inquisition. Besides, he’s a chaste as a chantry bell. It would be wholly one-sided.”

“Haven’t you seen the man walk? The sway of his hips is not that of a celibate man. And his hands—“

“You’ve not seen his hands. He wears gloves.” She wanted to take the statement back. Or at least the confidence with which she had blurted it out. It revealed that she had paid close attention to the Commander’s hands in the first place.

“I’ve not seen them in the flesh, perhaps. But the way he moves them? And the size of them?”

“What matter is their size?”

“Length from the tip of the thumb to the tip of the index finger.” He gestured, spreading his hand wide. “Pay attention at your next War Room meeting.”

Dorian had finally forced her to blush—not out of embarrassment at his suggestion, but out of her immediate acceptance of the assignment. She laughed and gave his knee a shove. “Alright you rascal. I have to go prepare for tomorrow. And you ought to, too.”

“Why? Will I be going somewhere?”

“I’m not leaving Skyhold without you.”

As the pair headed for the nearby staircase, they passed spindly Sam, sitting at a table, slack-jaw stunned. He would never breathe a word of the conversation to the Commander.

* * *

 

The next morning arrived heavy-footed against the backs of Brigid’s eyelids. She dressed in a daze, forced herself to eat breakfast in a daze, gathered her companions in a daze, and didn’t engage with the world until she, Dorian, Cassandra, and Varric had marched out of Skyhold and into the Hinterlands.

It wasn’t long into their journey when Brigid saw a rift shudder in the distance. “How are you feeling about all of this?” Cassandra asked, seemingly genuinely interested.

_Scared shitless_. “Just fine. It’s not like we haven’t closed one of these before. This time, I just have to actually defend myself. Can’t rely on my sword.” Cassandra had pestered Brigid more than once about her sloppy shield work, and thought her self-deprecation might lighten the Seeker’s spirits.

“Just let us do the aggressing. We’ll cover you. No unnecessary risks.”

Brigid could hear the sickening crackle of the rift only a few hundred feet away, tucked into a gentle valley ahead, and felt her left hand pull toward its sound. She resented this connection to the Fade—not because it left her responsible for fixing its tears, but because it had physical control of her. Just the smallest little bit, she reasoned, but still too much. With her right hand, she grabbed her other wrist to remind herself that she owned it.

Varric watched her with gentle attention. “Does it ever hurt?”

“It’s not painful, really. It feels like—“ A wrenching sound tore through her and her companions and her stomach contracted. Demons and wraiths cried in harmony with one another, drawn to her scent or her energy, she couldn’t tell but didn’t care.

Cassandra drew her sword with a flourish and planted her feet. “We’re going forward. Inquisitor, stay. back.”

Brigid nodded as she watched her companions march toward the din of wretched evil. She would keep back, but she must move at least a bit closer to reach the rift. Sidling up to the rock face, she edged herself and her seat toward the green gash until she was within range of its imploding energies. Cassandra, for all of her skill and determination, looked like a sitting duck. Brigid was used to glancing over at her ranged fighters lobbing arrows and spells alike at the enemy. But she was not used to such distance between herself and the Seeker. It was one of her greatest pleasures as part of the Inquisition—fighting side-by-side with the hard-edged woman. A pair of nimble warriors, equal parts grace and force.

She shoved the nostalgia aside. Confident that she was well-covered and that none of the creatures would interrupt her focus, she stretched her hand forward to disrupt the rift. As she had hoped, the tear sizzled its energy at the demons, stunning them so that her companions might wear them down without riposte. The whole mission suddenly seemed doable, even as the second round of foes burst forth from the rift. And then…

“Ahh, _fuck_ the Maker!”

Cassandra shouted back through thrusts of her sword, “Varric! What— _ugh_ —what’s wrong?”

“Bianca, she’s jammed,” he screamed, voice cracking and higher pitched than Brigid had ever heard from him. “My short fucking legs aren’t made for this,” he yelled, running as fast as he possibly could, away from the terror demon that stalked him down. He shook his crossbow, hit the contraption with the palm of his hand, tried everything in his might to put the weapon in working order, to no avail. Brigid could do little more than watch and curse Andraste for not making her a mage rather than a warrior so that she might be able to do something _more_ with her otherwise useless hands. The demon had caught up to Varric and gurgled a bit of laughter as it towered over him, feeding off of his fear, backing the dwarf up against the rock face that Brigid had just touched. She could hear Varric’s labored breathing, thought she could feel the panic mounting in his chest. Her own breast tightened. She had done this. She had brought her friends into the jaws of destruction and here, she would have to watch as one of them would die for her mistake. And Varric, worst of all—her storyteller, her comforter, her favorite sort of crass humor tempered with genuine affection. She would not look away. She would not grant herself the relief. In one desperate attempt to alter the tragedy before her, she cried out to distract the demon and raised her arms. She wasn’t sure what she thought might happen—perhaps the demon would sense her mark and become distracted. Perhaps the power of the rift could be channeled through her hand where its twin dug into her skin and she could incapacitate it.

In the end, she could hardly describe what actually transpired.

The ground quivered beneath her, a soft ripple, as if its lover had traced a finger down its pulse line, and Brigid closed her eyes. When she opened them, arms still lifted, she saw the rocky crag against which Varric was pressed begin to crumble, come to life, just above his head. A clod of rocks rent from the hillside and hovered above the demon. A soft, sharp thought tore through her mind and she mumbled to herself. “Get off of my _fucking_ friend.” The loose boulders drove down on the creature’s head, leaving behind a crackling shriek.

With the rest of the demons vanquished, Brigid snapped back to attention and raised her left palm up to the rift, invoking the queasy connection that brought her equal parts dread and relief. Slowly, she squeezed her fist shut until the rift sewed itself together, pouring out electric mist in its final death throes.

She rushed over to the dwarf who slid slowly down the remainder of the wall until he was slumped into the grass. He stared wide at the pile of rubble and flickering spirit before him, one hand dug into the hair on his head just to hold onto something. “Sweet Andraste’s tits, Heartstrings, you saved my life.”

Brigid was still panting to abate the adrenaline that coursed through her system, but a small smile was forming in her eyes as she spied Cassandra and Dorian running up. “Heartstrings?”

“Yeah…you really tug at ‘em. How did you—“

Dorian reached tentatively toward the stones, piled haphazardly. “Yes, Inquisitor, how _did_ you do that?” His curiosity was typically gentle so that he wouldn’t betray impassioned interest, but this time, he took an incredulous tone.

All Brigid could manage was a shrug, but her excitement was building. For the first time in months, she felt powerful. She’d forgotten the seat, forgot her rag doll legs. All of the fire in her belly that she used to release with a sword and shield had finally been depressurized. “I was terrified, angered, by the sight of Varric pinned there by that scraggly abomination of a thing. And by my inability to do anything. I felt energy in my very bones—normally I’d use it to shove my shield up a demon’s ass, but today—"

Cassandra cleaned her sword off on the grass and shook her head in disbelief. “Today, Inquisitor…today, you willed the mountains to move. What _will_ you do tomorrow?”

* * *

“So you see, it’s really quite simple. So simple, in fact, that it’s primitive.”

Brigid, Leliana, Josephine, Cullen, Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian stared at Solas in what could only be described as utter confusion. He might as well have been telling them that bears could speak Orlesian and houses could walk of their own accord.

“So this is what you learn to do when I go out of town?” Cullen tried to lighten the mood, but most of the meeting attendees needed more time to process and his joke fell flat.

“Actually, she didn’t _learn_ it. It’s a skill that you can hone, but you can’t just learn it. You have to be predisposed towards it and be of just the right temperament to ultimately call upon it.” The elf mage was unabashedly indulging in having something cryptic to explain to everyone.

Varric, scratching a quill across a scroll as quickly and maniacally as he could, looked up with a grin. “Okay okay, let me see if I get this. Heartstrings over here loses her ability to walk and battle and all that, which she was previously really good at. So it leaves all this unused energy bubbling up in her, so nature just goes, ‘fine, now you can…float boulders or whatever, put the _oomph_ to good use’.”

Solas grimaced. “It’s a little more nuanced than that, but yes, I do believe that losing more conventional physical abilities somehow unlocked this talent. If it weren’t for her injury, I don’t think this would have ever manifested.”

All-in-all, Cullen was relieved. His back had been rife with knots for the entirety of his Redcliffe trip, even on the evening when Alistair insisted on drinking until they were both barely coherent. The King had encouraged the Commander to indulge in a bit of flesh as well, insisting that one of the bar maidens was notoriously willing to accommodate and that the release would ease his troubled mind. Cullen was both comforted and mortified to think that Ferelden’s king was such a common man, but drinking had been enough for the evening, even if it wasn’t enough to untie his knots. As Solas had said that horrible evening outside of Haven, the Inquisition was nothing without Brigid. So the thought of her traipsing into battle without a way to defend herself…well, it concerned him, to say the least. He really did trust Cassandra as much as he had assured Brigid, but he wasn’t sure one warrior would be enough. This new skill, however, changed the entire operative. Immediately strategizing, Cullen realized that their Inquisitor was more valuable than ever. The opponent may have magic at their disposal, but no one in living memory was capable of Brigid’s new trick.

Dorian broke the Commander out of his reverie. “Explain the source of magic again, I just don’t—“

“That’s just it!” No one present had ever heard Solas so enthused. “It’s _not_ magic. Brigid isn’t capable of magic, I would have recognized it immediately. Even if it were an impossibly old, defunct brand of magic. Magic is _super_ natural, it’s outside of the natural order. Magic is the manipulation of reality, but it is not reality itself, we’ve all been taught that. Brigid’s ability is deeply embedded in nature. It’s _hyper_ natural.”

Dorian huffed. “Alright, that isn’t helpful, because it sounds like they’re the same thing.”

“Look at it like this: the flames you conjure as a mage aren’t actual flames. They’re magic, in the guise of flames, with all of the effects and trappings of flames. But they don’t exist as matter in this world. Nor does the ice that I manifest. We know this because the crystals and blazes vanish as soon as we’re done with them.”

“It just sounds like Force magic to me,” Leliana interrupted. Cullen couldn’t stifle a wince. He recalled that Force magic was particularly popular in Kirkwall and tried to momentarily entertain the notion of Brigid as a mage. Though he had grown more comfortable with mages, the idea unsettled him.

“It may be the ancestor of it, before it was actually _magic_ …there are similarities. I actually first mistook it for Nature magic, which makes no sense, since Brigid isn’t Dalish.” He glanced at the Inquisitor. “Are you Dalish by any chance?"

She shook her head fervently. “Not to my knowledge.”

Solas picked up as quickly as he had stopped. “Besides, even if you do have some miniscule bit of Dalish blood in you, I don’t feel any pull of magic. Your only connection to the Fade is the mark on your hand and its feels…well, not like magic. And what you did with the rock face…that’s not in the repertoire of a Keeper.” The elf took a deep breath. “I’ve found knowledge in the Fade about a kind of bond that some human lines had with the natural world around them many, many hundreds of ago. Perhaps _thousands_ of years ago. It’s a kind of communicative understanding, so to speak. It was a latent connection, so diluted that it often faded out after a few generations. It seems no one bothered to preserve it, despite how terribly useful it is. But it isn’t magic…not really. It isn’t dependent upon interaction with the Fade. Just this connection with the natural world and a powerful emotion to serve as a catalyst.”

Cullen saw Brigid slump back in her Seat and he struggled to read her face. She was born of nobility, after all, and they were disgustingly good at masking their emotions. He smiled inwardly at this thought—taught all of her life to disguise emotions, and now, her miraculous talent would depend upon unleashing them.

“My theory,” Solas continued, “is that, when the demon threatened Varric’s life, Brigid became so utterly enraged that the connection came to life. Rock, being inanimate but still the epitome of nature, responded with the least resistance. Hence—“

“It bent to her will,” Cassandra finished. “But I’m sure she’s been angry before. Why would it only surface now?”

“It requires an immense amount of focus and energy. Again, this is just a theory, but I imagine her instinct toward a warrior skillset ate up so much of that focus that this new ability never had enough energy to manifest.”

“Does it have a name?” Brigid asked, silencing the group around her. Cullen thought the question was rather unimportant; she ought to have asked about its implications, or why no one else can do it. Nonetheless, he leant toward Solas, anticipating the answer.

But the elf mage shrugged. “There is nothing written in this world about it. It is a shadow of a memory belonging to a lost era of civilization.” He was verging on grandiosity. “I’ve only encountered it in the Fade. It was given no label there.”

Without so much as a second’s pause, Brigid spoke. “Primi Vinculum.” Cassandra and Dorian smirked knowingly, but Cullen remained mystified.

Josephine cleared her throat and hummed in approval. “Primitive bond. Appropriate, I think. And appropriate that you should name it.”

The group sat in contemplative quiet. Questions hung heavy in the musty War Room, but everyone seemed aware that there were no answers—at least none that could be gleaned from further conversation that night. Cullen had no idea how long they sat in such reverie, but eventually, Varric stood. “Alright, gang. I need to get a drink and write some of this down and… _fuck_ , process, I guess. 

Dorian and Cassandra followed the dwarf out, suspecting that the main council may have other matters to discuss. But Leliana and Josephine walked out in hushed whispers just behind the companions, leaving Cullen and the Inquisitor sitting across from one another in silence. He tried desperately to not make eye contact before realizing that she was so far gone in thought, he could stare holes in her head and she’d be none the wiser.

Glaring directly into the fire that licked the room with stifling heat, she inquired. “How was Redcliffe, Commander?”

“Redcliffe?” What was Redcliffe? What was Thedas now that rocks could be lifted into the air without magic? “Ah, yes, Redcliffe was…Redcliffe was fine,” his voice rose at the end of his phrase. “Or rather, it’s in a sorry state after the Venatori attack. But King Alistair is overseeing its recovery and Arl Teagan keeps busy with diplomatic matters. We have their undivided support.”

Still, she gazed into the fire, seemingly bound to out-heat it with her eyes. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

Shifting in his seat, Cullen cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Inquisitor, but—“

“Brigid.” Her voice was clear like a bell.

He faltered. “Brigid?”

“Please, just call me Brigid.” Her eyes never wavered from the flames. “I think I’m losing myself in all of this. Gentle reminders of who I am would be greatly appreciated.”

“Very well,” he ventured, “Brigid. Forgive me, but…are you alright? Is there anything I can do to—to help you manage all of this? I know it must be dreadfully—”

She flicked her eyes over to meet his and it nearly set him aflame. The smile that followed cooled him to his core. Something in the woman had awoken and he sat in awe of its stirring. “None of this feels quite possible, does it?”

He could only manage a shake of his head. But then he found his voice. “I don’t think you were sent by Andraste.” He wasn’t sure where the statement had come from, he never planned to say it.

“No…I don’t think so either.”

His confidence built. “I don’t think anyone sent you.”

Her smile softened, became warmer.

“But you’re here all the same. And I’m very glad for it.”

The intensity in her eyes faded ever so slightly and he felt safer, he recognized that despite their shared ethereal moment, she was still human.

“Do you think I can do this? That _we_ can do this?”

Her question was laden with implication, not the least of which dealt with her injury. He had left for Redcliffe completely unsure of the Inquisition’s future. He believed in the tenacity of its Inquisitor, but the physics of battle remained steadfast and _Maker, she couldn’t even stand_. Now, nothing seemed steady, save for the glow in her eyes. Perhaps the physics of battle could be bent.

He did not answer her question and instead, offered her a vow. “I will spend my last unworthy breath making sure that you can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Comeback Kid" (Sleigh Bells): https://youtu.be/YiwcUdX7XMw


	6. Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He comes for conversation...I comfort him sometimes.

“Try getting incredibly sad about something,” Dorian suggested, watching a large stone that had fallen off of the nearby battlement with tentative intensity.

The Inquisitor shot a sharp scowl at him. “I can’t just _make_ myself incredibly sad. Besides, I don’t think sorrow is very effective here, it’s too… _meh_.”

“Imagine you’ve got a long lost love and you’ve just found out he died and your name was the last thing on his lips and now you’re all broken up over it.” He was nearly giddy at his own short yet tragic tale.

She broke her concentration on the boulder. “Maker, Dorian, that’s awful.”

“I know! Let it fuel you.” He clenched his hands into fists as if to encourage her.

“But I don’t have a long lost love—this isn’t working.” 

“Then get sad thinking about not having a long lost love—have you really never? That’s depressing….”

It had taken a fair amount of debate and confusion to determine who would help Brigid train her new abilities. None of her companions had any definitive understanding of what was happening in the first place, and despite casting a wide net, Leliana’s spies failed to uncover any hidden experts in the field. Solas had the most information, but had already passed all of it on and thought his stoic nature would contradict Brigid’s need for strong emotion. Thus, the duty had fallen to the Inquisition’s Tevinter mage—all vim and vigor.

“Let’s try fear, then. What are you most afraid of?”

She wasn’t terribly comfortable contemplating her deepest fears, many of which were so nebulous that she struggled to verbalize them. “I don’t like frogs.”

She could read contempt in his face. Gentle contempt, but contempt nonetheless. “Well I don’t like cheap ale, but I’m not _afraid_ of it. Come woman, what terrifies you to your core?”

_Dying alone. Living without a purpose. Being lied to. Disappointing her the people she loved, especially her new found companions. Failing._ She closed her eyes, held her breath, and shoved all of the fear toward the stone. She heard it creak, opened her eyes, watched it shift on the ground, and then stop.

“Alright! Okay! That was something. That was movement,” Dorian encouraged.

“Not enough.”

“Well no, not yet. But you just picked up this talent not even a fortnight ago. We’ll get there, darling.”

His reassurance was like a warm hug, even if Brigid could not match his level of positivity. She took a deep breath to remind herself that Dorian was quite right—she just needed patience and determination. “Perhaps we can take a break? I have to speak with Josephine about something and would like to clear my head.” The mage nodded, turning to make his own way to the tavern, likely to visit with Bull. Brigid’s heart warmed at the thought. Between Bull's booming personality and Dorian's flashiness, they were an obnoxious pair, no doubt. But a delightful one all the same

She turned to leave in a cheery reverie, nearly colliding with the Commander.

“Inquisitor! My apologies, I was rushing,” he said, righting himself by placing a hand on her shoulder.

She shook her head and mumbled something that she didn’t even recognize. He smelled of sweat and leather and the sharp, acrid tang of steel. His armor and furs usually smothered any smell, but he was without them, wearing only his breeches and a breezy undershirt. He must have been sparring with more experienced recruits—he liked to keep the regalia on with newer ones for the purpose of hazing intimidation. A bit of fun, he assured her, and she dismissed it as endearing male silliness. But he did not look silly in this particular instance.

“No trouble, Commander. Cullen.”

The moment moved much faster for him than it did for her. As quickly as he had rushed in, he hurried past her to the armory. She had always assumed that his apparent height and breadth were an effect of his armor, but she saw now that the armor must actually be quite thin and light and the bulk of his size was all his own—heavy shoulders, solid legs, thick muscle across his back. Maker, he was so _tall_.

Dorian started as the boulder near him lifted gently and steadily, up toward its original placement on the wall above, seemingly of its own volition. He shot an incredulous look at Brigid who sat with her head cocked to the side, pouring her gaze into the unknowing back of the Commander. The movement startled her and she looked around for the boulder. When she looked at Dorian, half of her face was covered by her hand.

“You scoundrel!” he shouted, grinning from ear to ear. “What in Thedas are you going to do?”

Cullen had turned as well when he felt the stone lift from the ground. “Well done, Brigid! Coming along nicely.” He had paid no heed to Dorian’s shouting. His smile was so bright and authentic, nestled in his flushed face, that Brigid groaned, trying her best to turn her wince into a smiling reply. She managed a nod and a wave in his direction before he disappeared into the armory.

Dorian walked up to stand right next to her, hardly an inch between them. “So…Inquisitor. I repeat: what are you going to do about this?”

Time seems to move far too quickly when your actions tell you something that your mind does not yet understand. She didn’t have a straight answer for Dorian. Her deepest dread, focused into a single pinprick could hardly shake the stone, but a brief stare at the Commander had lifted it with ease _and_ without her attention.

Dorian answered his own question when Brigid failed. “Well I say you use it. If looking at the Commander’s backside fuels you enough to do that,” he pointed to the stone placed back on the wall, “then we need to get you more material to think about.”

She grumbled. “This is so inappropriate. I’m awful.”

“No,” he said sharply. “You’re human. And he’s delicious. And kind. And genuine. And broody. He doesn’t have to know _why_ you’ve become so good at your new talent.”

Brigid took a moment to consider the worst possible outcome. Cullen would find out, be utterly disgusted, lose all of his faith in her and the Inquisition, and vanish. She laughed at how ridiculous it sounded. She’d never let him know and she trusted Dorian to not say anything. Or rather, she trusted his reputation as a flirt to keep people from suspecting anything other than his own lechery if he _did_ say something. Still, she’d like to find some other way to ignite her skill. She determined that she’d try anger when she returned from speaking with Josephine, even if Dorian didn’t approve. Or perhaps aching embarrassment.

* * *

She took the long path to the main tower, at leisure and suddenly craving light conversation with whoever might be walking around. On cue, Sera sidled up to her.

“Oi, fancy-pants, where you going in a huff?”

‘Fancy-pants’ generally meant that Sera was sweet on you that particular day, unable to come up with a more vulgar nickname. It made Brigid smile. “A chat with Josephine.” 

“Oooh, _very_ important. 'Bout what?”

It was a good question, Brigid thought. “No idea. Her invitation.”

“Ah. Well, clue me in if you need any mischief. And while you’re at it, maybe have a talk with big moody on my behalf.”

“Bull?”

She scoffed. “No, I can talk to that lump of meat anytime I like. Talkin’ about shiny armor. Ain’t got the ‘tolerance’ for me, he says. But you got his ear, yeah?”

Brigid bristled at the invocation of the Commander. She had just swatted him out of her mind. “What do you need me to talk to him about?”

“Verchiel. Some fighting between fancy britches is getting little people beat up.”

“What can the Inquisition do about it?”

“Just strut through. Might settle ‘em down, knowing you’re watching.”

“ _We’re_ watching. You’re part of this, Sera.”

Her face was full of mock disgust. “Yeah, yeah…just talk to mister moody for me?”

“He’s not _moody_.” Brigid would deal with the source of her sudden impassioned defense of their _decidedly_ moody Commander later.

The elf gave her a frown and a shrug. “Fine then, _not_ moody. Soft today, huh?”

Why _was_ she so sensitive? “I just have to be going. But I’ll bring it up to the council, you have my word,” she promised, departing.

Sera tipped an arrow in her direction and waved it to say farewell. “Good on ya!”

Brigid made her way through the rest of Skyhold, waving to and nodding at the villagers as she passed. Such an odd assortment of people, depending upon her, but willing to pull their weight. It was no wonder civilizations told stories of their beginnings with such affection—this start of a community around the Inquisition breathed life into her bones, even if its start had been ignited by horrendous events.

“Inquisitor, superb timing,” Josephine called out, just as she entered the Great Hall. “Please, in my office,” she directed.

Leliana was already waiting, reading through small missives that her ravens had undoubtedly brought her earlier in the morning. Once Josephine settled behind her desk, she began. “I called this meeting in my office instead of the War Room because there’s not much deliberation to be had. Empress Celene’s ball is approaching and we have to make an immediate decision.”

“A decision regarding what?” Cullen plodded into the room. His fur-collared coat was still conspicuously absent, but he had replaced his armor, hastily it seemed, since he was adjusting one of the pauldrons. “Sorry for my delay, I lost track of time with the recruits.” Brigid made a pointed effort to not glance in his direction.

“No trouble, Commander, we just began.” Josephine shuffled through the papers on her ledger. “As I was saying, the Empress will be holding a grand mask at Halamshiral in approximately two months. We have no choice but to attend.” Cullen groaned, but the Ambassador ignored him. “Adamant is becoming more of a problem, however. We have to decide—today, preferably—whether the Inquisition will handle the conflict there before or after the ball. And if we decide to do it before, then preparations for travel must be made immediately.”

Cullen stepped forward and rested both gloved hands on the pommel of his sword. “ _More_ of a problem? How so?”

“I received word from Hawke and Stroud,” Leliana replied. “They have found Erimond and it seems that he’s trying to outdo his work in the Western Approach. More binding spells. And his influence over Warden-Commander Clarel is particularly alarming.”

The Commander nodded in understanding and looked to Brigid. “Well, Inquisitor…what will it be?”

Without a map of Thedas to pretend to study, Brigid was acutely aware of her pause. But the answer came to her quickly, all the same. “Adamant first. I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

Josephine did not seem pleased. “As you wish, Inquisitor. But are your new skills up to snuff yet?" 

“If what I saw earlier is any indication, I think we’ll be just fine.” Cullen’s enthusiasm rivaled that of Dorian previously in the day and a fresh pang of embarrassment tore through Brigid. “Besides, I’ll be joining you. Our recruits are ready. If Erimond is corrupting the Wardens as quickly as Hawke claims, we’re going to have a full battle on our hands.”

“Very well,” Josephine assented. “But if you die out there, just know that I will track you down in my Fade dreams and torment you for leaving me to deal with an Orlesian masked ball without an Inquisitor.”

“Leliana, contact Hawke and Stroud, let them know we’re coming…and we’re bringing an army. Josephine, touch base with Verchiel so they’re not surprised when we march through—speaking of which, Commander,” she turned around to point at Cullen, “remind me that I need to talk to you about something once we get on the road.” Turning her attention back to the Ambassador, she continued. “See if they don’t mind us making camp for a day or two once we get there. It’s going to be a long journey, we’ll need at least one major stop to rest and resupply if we’re bringing an army.”

_This_. This was where Brigid felt like she could truly shine. She liked attending to the small details, the individuals involved in the Inquisition. But she came alive when she got a chance to address the larger goal. An attack on Adamant was just what she needed to regain her confidence and feel like she was making headway. She would speak with Cassandra about a contingency plan, get a good night’s rest, and embark on the suicide mission tomorrow. Her heart soared.

Josephine nodded, taking fervent notes. “Who will you be bringing with you?”

“Cullen, apparently,” she couldn’t suppress a grin at him. “Varric. We know he works well with Hawke. Blackwall. I think it’s best to have a Warden on our side. And Dorian. He’s trained with me the longest.”

“What about Cassandra? She often travels with you.”

“I want Cassandra here at Skyhold. If the worst happens…” Brigid trailed off and saw Leliana and Josephine looking at her strangely, faces full of soft dread. “She’ll take over. Closing the Breach was a short game. Stopping Corypheus is a long one, and we must be prepared to stick it out.”

To her surprise, Cullen nodded fervently. “I’ve already talked to Bull about hiring a couple of his Chargers if…well, like the Inquisitor said, if things go bad. They’ll step in to train recruits and lead things until a more permanent solution is found.”

Frustration bubbled in Josephine. “I don’t like this talk. Suddenly both of you have lost faith in your capabilities?”

“Not at all!” Brigid urged. “Maker preserve me, I _don’t_ plan on dying at Adamant Fortress. But I want to be smart about this. I can’t speak for the Commander,” he nodded, permitting her to anyway, “but part of my job is to make sure Corypheus is ended, no matter who ends him. It would be hubris to assume that the Inquisition begins and ends with just me.”

“I think they’re right, Josie.” Leliana touched a hand to her friend’s shoulder. “We have been fearless in our attacks thus far, but perhaps foolish at times. We have the benefit of time to plan. We might as well use it.”

“If everything goes smoothly…well, _relatively_ smoothly,” Brigid corrected, “then we should be back at Skyhold with just enough time to recover and attend Celene’s celebration.”

“And if we die out West,” Cullen added, “then at least we miss the ball.”

* * *

The sun rose red the morning that the Inquisition party embarked on the journey to Adamant. Cullen recalled warnings recited at him as a child by his adventurous uncle about the foreboding message of such a sun. Something about death and blood and battle cries. But on that particular morning, nothing could dampen his spirits. Being out on the field after months of bureaucratic office work revived him. The whispering reminder of the Inquisitor’s need to talk to him, however, did prick at the back of his mind. Surely there was nothing to reprimand him about. It was likely just news regarding that clan of Avvar volunteers that had never shown up. But her tone in Josephine’s office seemed much less “serious business” and more “personal matters.” Had Cassandra told her about the lyrium? She did seem rather eager to leave the Seeker behind, perhaps she thought she’d be saving her from his wrath. But he wouldn’t be wrathful—on the contrary, he’d be penitent. He had always told Cassandra that, if his stopping the lyrium affected his ability to perform his duties, she should find a replacement. Maybe Brigid was so enthusiastic about his joining because she’d leave him at Adamant, Maker, this was—

“Commander!”

He looked ahead to see the Inquisitor dropping back, steering her horse from the comfort of a bench in a rather elegant chariot Master Dennet had acquired for her.

“Your Worship,” he nodded. 

“Oh, bugger, please… _no_ worship.” He nodded again. It seemed nodding was the only thing he could will his body to do, he had worked himself into such a panic. “I wanted to speak with you about something—" 

“Please, Inquisitor, let me. I presume Cassandra has told you about the lyrium. Well, that I’ve stopped taking the lyrium. I told her to watch my behavior, keep an eye on my health—I’ve always been terrible at gauging my own wellbeing, I’ve been told I push myself too far.”

Brigid squinted at him but let him continue.

“If the two of you have agreed that I’m no longer competent, I understand.” His eyes dropped to the ground. “I wanted so terribly to see this through to the end, but I will not be so prideful as to let my desires hinder the cause. If you should like help finding a replacement, I will do my very best.”

Brigid’s squint turned into a frown as she cocked her head to the side. “Commander…what in Andraste’s name _are_ you talking about?”

“Well I…wai—what?” He nearly stopped his horse by mistake. “The lyrium. You know…Templars take lyrium as part of their joining the Order. Makes us better at our job? But when I left, I wanted to leave all of it, so I stopped taking the lyrium. It’s a horrible detoxification process. Headaches, paranoia, nausea?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, I’ve heard that it’s dreadful. Are you alright?”

“Am I…I don’t—wait, so you’re not here to talk about the lyrium?”

“No,” she said, slowing her horse further so that they had both dropped back and to the side. “But now I’m concerned for you.”

He could see that she genuinely was worried. It was both a darling and a bit heartbreaking. “Oh…well thank you. I mean—I’m sorry, I thought Cassandra had talked to you about it. I asked her to watch me. I’ve been feeling quite well, actually, but I thought maybe she had noticed something off.”

“She hasn’t said anything to me. Cullen, you ought to have told me sooner. I would have been sympathetic, you know…”

“Yes, well, I didn’t want to make a fuss. I’m glad you know now, if for no other reason than having an extra set of eyes on me.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Some days are bad. The headaches are the worst part, they put me in an awful, short-tempered mood. But my duties here keep my attention off of it all. Most of the time, anyway. I still expect I’ve not felt the worst of it.” 

“I admire your decision. I can’t imagine the struggle, but I can empathize with wanting a clean start. I’d like to think I would have done the same, if I were in your boots.”

“I feel sure that you would.” It may have been the first time they smiled purposefully at one another. For all of their struggles, it was a pleasant indulgence. “Now, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Right! Well Sera—“

“ _Oh dear_ …”

“No,” she laughed. Boisterous and musical and _maker_ , it was like sunshine. “Nothing like that. She said the nobles in Verchiel are causing trouble for the ‘little people’…I guess some disagreement of theirs is interfering with daily life. She asked if we’d spook them a bit. Get them to behave.” She cocked an eyebrow his way and he swallowed hard. “She specifically asked that I recruit you.”

“Really? She likes to look out for the little people, doesn’t she?”

“It’s one of my very favorite things about her.” Fondness washed across the Inquisitor’s face and Cullen saw once and for all that this Inquisition was about the people for her. “She can be friends with a ‘fancy pants’ like me, but still put the everyman first.”

“I suppose it is admirable, really. Honnleath could have used such a benefactor when I was there. I guess every little village could.”

A wave of nostalgia seemed to wash over Brigid as she stared off into the distance. “I wanted to be that for my little village.”

“Ostwick’s a bit bigger than a village, I’d say.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But I knew all of the people. It felt small. Cozy.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Of course. That’s why I’m doing all of this. Corypheus won’t stop with the Inquisition. He’ll corrupt it all." 

“What does your family think of all this?”

“They likely think I’m dead. I’ve decided it’s better that way. I don’t want them putting their lives in danger to bring me back." 

“You get on well with them?”

“With my father, I do. And most of my siblings. My mother, however…” she snorted and fidgeted with a ring on her right hand that Cullen had never noticed before.

“Is that hers?”

“Oh this? No…it was her mother’s. It went straight to me.”

“Were you close with your grandmother?” He wasn’t sure he ought to be asking so many probing personal questions, many of which could easily upset her, but she never hesitated to answer.

“I don’t recall. She died when I was very young. But my father was dear to her. The family always jokes that my father didn’t marry to have a wife, he married to have her mother. I suppose he wasn’t close with his own and my grandmother treated him like a son. She gave him this ring to pass to me when I was old enough. _She_ never got on well with my mother either. A difficult woman to get along with…”

“Please…go on…”

Her smile was sheepish, but she continued. “She didn’t understand that her children were real, distinctive people. She had planned so many things for us—out of love, perhaps, or out of her own ambitions. I was to marry whichever nobleman brought the family the most esteem. Needless to say, when she found me fighting my brothers with a sharpened stick, in naught but my knickers…she was none too pleased.”

“What did your father think?”

“He was stunned. He loved it! Papa was never a very fit man. A bit scraggly and clumsy. But good-hearted to his very core. He hoped that one of his sons would grow up to be strapping, to protect the family. But my oldest brother was the spitting image of him. All lanky arms and legs and a cough. The boy was _always_ clearing his throat. He would take my father’s title, no doubt. Some things cannot be changed. But it was decided some years ago that I would be the enforcer. Cillian would hold the title and continue the line. I would travel on his behalf and play diplomat.”

“And you were alright with that arrangement?”

“Absolutely. I didn’t care about the recognition, I just wanted a good life for the people of Ostwick. For the baker who snuck me sweet rolls when I was a child. And the old grey-headed innkeeper, Mariah, who taught me maths with her supplies ledger. I wanted to be a woman of the people. The city had everything it needed, except for a strong heir. So I trained to be a warrior. I would be the ghost heir.”

The puzzle finally fell into place. “That’s why you were at the Conclave.”

She nodded. “I was representing my father. The whole family had an agreement. If things went well at the Conclave and I secured the alliance I was meant to secure, my mother would stop pestering me about getting married…little did she know, I was doing her a favor.”

“How so?”

“If I had married, I would have disgraced the family name. I don’t know if you’ve learned this about me, but there’s not a subservient bone in my body.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck. It felt like entrapment—like he’d accidentally insult her. “You are your own woman, that much is true.”

“Exactly. Do you think I would have had dinner ready on the table when my noble husband walked in the house from a long day doing absolutely nothing important? By the Maker, not on my life.”

He ventured to tease her. “You wouldn’t want to prepare your husband a lovely meal?”

“Well if I _loved_ him, of course! But I wouldn’t want to be expected to do it. Very different situation. If I loved him and thought he might like his favorite meal, I would go to every length to fix it for him. But if he told me he _expected_ it, I’d refuse. Then he’d beat me, no doubt…So I’d have to kill him.”

Cullen’s eyes grew wide.

“It would be a whole big thing.”

Silence. Tension mounting.

She leaned toward his face and released a slow, wide grin that rose all the way to her eyes. “I’m kidding, Commander.”

“I don’t think you are,” he said, failing to stifle a smirk.

Again, they exchanged genuine smiles. He felt lighter than he had in ages. Nearly forgot he was wearing armor.

“What about you, Cullen. I imagine you’ve got a family?”

He sucked in a breath and tried to relax. He still felt guilty for not writing them more often. “Two sisters and a brother. Our parents passed some time ago. I’ve not seen any of them in nearly fifteen years.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your parents,” she whispered.

He brushed it off gently. “It was long ago. I only regret not being there for my siblings. They were still so young when it happened.”

“Are you the eldest?”

“Second eldest. My sister Mia is a bit older. And remarkable at chess.”

Brigid groaned. “My father always tried to improve my chess game. It never did take.”

“You play?” He was surprised, though he no reason to be. “We ought to play sometime.”

“I should like that.” Her smile was easy and he envied it. He wondered if anyone in Thedas could smile more easily than her. “Do you keep in touch with this ‘Mia’?”

“Not as well as I ought to. I’m not even sure if she knows we made it to Skyhold.”

“Commander! Unacceptable. Write to your sisters. I order it.” He knew her harshness was only teasing, but her tone compelled him to listen. “Tell them of all the friends you’ve made. And that you have the admiration of the Inquisitor herself. Give them some solace and an extra reason to be proud of you. You’ve done a very good job here, you know.”

He thought his heart might very well lodge in his throat. He never had figured out how to accept a compliment, least of all from the Herald of Andraste. “You are much too kind, Inquisitor.”

“Hardly.” She whipped her reigns gently and her horse sped forward, back toward the head of the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Conversation" (Joni Mitchell): https://youtu.be/p63OBIdGt-8
> 
> If it's not been obvious yet, the songs that pair with the chapters don't match up entirely--this one especially. Though the thought of an unhappily attached Commander trying to reconcile his feelings for someone new...I'm intrigued!
> 
> Thanks to those of you that are reading, by the way. I could write dozens of pages of casual conversation dialogue between these two, it makes my heart warm.


	7. Green Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I came here with a load, and it feels so much lighter now I met you..."

The first day of travel had been relatively easy. Cullen found that wolves and bandits alike were much rarer sights when traveling with such a large party. Brigid had spied a rift just past noon and insisted on closing it. He wasn’t a fan of the idea at the time since none of the demons were presenting an immediate threat, but she framed it in terms of “practicing her new ability,” so he permitted it. Of course he permitted it, she was the savior of all Thedas. More accurately, she permitted him to feel like he had a say in the matter.

They made camp the first night in the smallest open space that could fit them all. Cullen preferred something a little more insulated—a clearing in the woods, a snug valley with only one way in and one way out. But their large numbers necessitated something more spacious. Samwell had set up the Commander’s tent—seeming more like a squire than a messenger—so Cullen ducked into it to read reports that Leliana had sent him with. Not five minutes into his work and he heard the flap to his tent smack open.

“Curly, can I bother you for a second?” Varric stood with quill and journal in hand.

Secretly relieved to have an excuse for abandoning his work, Cullen stood up. He wasn’t quite ready to turn in for the night. “Why not…by the fire, then?"

Varric mumbled. “Romantic…”

“What’s that?”

“Ah…nothing,” he said, leading the two of them to the nearest campfire. “I just wanted to get your input on something.” Cullen nodded, his palms rested firmly on the pommel of his sword. “I’m working on a new book. I think it’ll be a series, actually, but its hero is this real noble guy.”

“Is this one of your romances?” Cullen assumed that the skepticism and mild disgust on his face were tangible.

“No, an epic, actually. Like I said, it’ll probably end up pretty long.” He took a seat on a nearby oak stump and gestured for Cullen to do the same. The Commander obliged. “He’s a genuinely noble guy, but he was born a bastard, you see. A literal bastard, out of wedlock and everything.”

“I follow.”

“There’s a little family drama, but he gets on real well with his dad, who also happens to be a really honorable guy.”

“Except for the whole conceiving a bastard thing,” Cullen interjected.

“Hey, even honorable men make mistakes…like I was saying, hero gets along with his dad and with all of his half siblings, especially his half-brother who’s about his same age. This half-brother will be the one to inherit the family title. Now, the hero doesn’t have a problem with this. He really likes the guy, thinks he’ll be good at it. But he still wants to make something of himself that he can proud of, you know?”

Cullen was surprised by his own engagement. “A really decent fellow, by the sounds of it.”

“Yeah! So he doesn’t want to disrupt the whole legitimate family thing, doesn’t want to stir up a mess. Instead, he decides to join this really respectable order—the Watchers. They’re in charge of protecting everybody from the monsters and shit going on in the north. Only catch to joining is that he has to give up a whole bunch of stuff—can’t hold any lands, can’t keep any riches, can’t father any children or take a wife.”

The Commander frowned.

“But it’s not so bad, he figures. He’s never been with a woman, doesn’t know what he’s missing. Lots of the other guys keep bedding women, though. They go to the nearest village and get their fill. But our hero never does. He stays noble about the whole business.”

Cullen nodded firmly. “Takes his vows seriously, it’s admirable.”

Varric only barely hid his smile. “Yeah…so he’s all set, feeling good about his decision, right? He goes on a patrol up north and runs into a band of barbarians, bam, first time in the field. He meets a whole bunch of them, and one of them is this woman. It’s the woman he’s going to break his vows for…”

“What? Just like that?”

“Well he’s really in love with her. He doesn’t just want to fuck her, he wants to spend his life with her. And he’s got a really good reason!”

“And what might that be?”

“That’s what I need you to tell me. Follow me for a minute…I’m not the noblest guy around, we all know it. I mean, I’m not a bad guy, but if I were in this situation, just about any woman would be great enough for me to break a vow. But you’re a real stand up gentleman.”

Cullen sat back, pulled his chest in. “Wha—alright…”

“Put yourself in his shoes. What would that woman have to be like for you—an unbearably honorable guy—to give up your vows?”

Cullen considered, remained silent. It was hard to tell. He figured that if he ever ended up wildly in love with someone, he’d just know it. He didn’t have a checklist of qualities prepared.

“Would she be beautiful?” Varric asked, trying to spark the conversation.

It hadn’t been Cullen’s first thought. “I suppose. Most women can be beautiful, though. And I would think that, for a man like him, whatever she looked like, he’d find her beautiful.”

“Alright, looks not important…but like, if you could pick features…let’s say eyes. What eye color do you like best?”

Cullen tapped a gloved thumb against his thigh as if he’d forgotten what colors eyes could be.

“Blue?” Varric ventured.

“No, warmer than that.”

“Brown?”

He remembered another color. “Green. I’d say green.”

“Green,” Varric repeated, scrawling a note in his book. “Bright green, like the Breach?”

“No…deep green. Like trees.”

“Tree-like eyes, got it.”

“No, not like…haven’t you ever been on top of a hill, or high on a mountainside, and looked down at the forest below? Green like that…like the tops of a verdant wood.”

Varric was almost impressed. “ _Verdant_ …damn, Curly. Alright, how about hair? Favorite hair color?”

“Oh, any color. Women’s hair in general is …you know the smell? _Maker_ …even if they’ve been working outside all day, women’s hair smells incredible. Warm. A bit like a meadow.”

“Brown hair goes well with green,” Varric suggested.

Cullen found himself in a daydream. Rich brown hair slipping through his fingers, smelling of sunbaked earth and tall grass and wildflowers. “With a bit of red in it. Like rosewood.” It had been ages since he last ran his hands through a woman’s hair. In that moment, he missed it more than the sensation of kissing. He felt a melancholy coming on and tried to wipe the image from his mind. “More than her appearance, though, I think the only thing that could persuade him to break his vow would be some kind of incredible personality.”

“What would that personality be like, then?”

“She’d be strong.”

“She’d have to be a warrior?”

“Not necessarily. Not all people with strength wield a sword. Maybe she’s chosen to stay at home and take care of the children in the village. Or maybe she’s a healer. Whatever she does,” he said, hardly meaning to put his hand on his chest, “she does it with her whole heart. _That_ is the only woman worth committing to. The only woman I’d— _he’d_ leave his order for.”

“Intelligence?” Varric posed.

“Oh yes. She doesn’t have to be a scholar, but wit…and a bit of humor—that’s what gets you through the hard times.”

“This is all very interesting. Very helpful.”

“Is that all you needed?” Cullen asked, shifting, as if preparing to get up and return to his tent.

Varric closed his notebook and cleared his throat. “Yeah, pretty much, thanks Curly.” He stood up and patted Cullen on the back. “Also…uh, you realize you just described the Inquisitor, right?” Before the Commander could respond, the dwarf had run off.

How long Cullen remained sitting in front of the fire by himself was impossible to tell. What had Varric meant by running off? So he had described Brigid. The Inquisitor was a fine woman, certainly the type that Varric’s hero might fall in love with. Where was the shock in that? He imagined lots of men could fall in love with Brigid. Varric’s questions returned to him one by one and he realized that he had, in fact, described the Inquisitor. Trait for trait. In all honesty, he wasn’t terribly surprised with himself, though he felt a slight but unmistakable pang of guilt. He was only bothered by the fact the he had never noticed her eyes. _How in Thedas had he missed that she had green eyes?_

* * *

The next morning dawned rosy and brisk. Heading west had provided some relief from the cold and snowy late autumn of the Frostbacks, but even here, winter was beginning to dig its heels in a bit more stubbornly with each passing day. Cullen could feel the chill in his joints, each ache a memory of a healed broken bone. His head felt hazy as well, a sure sign that a lyrium migraine would haunt him for the day. Nonetheless, he grabbed a straight razor and a lump of soap out of his trunk and sought out the shallow water-basin Sam had filled for him the night before. He cracked a knuckle against the sheen of ice atop the water and foamed the soap. The lather was cold against his hands, and colder against his jaw, lifting chill bumps across his neck. He’d have to be careful to not nick any of the raised skin.

He finished up his morning routine, dutifully packing used items away as he went. Finally, he dressed himself in most of his armor, and headed outside with his cuirass. Typically, he had no trouble securing its many straps, but his body ached, and he knew that if Sam was in the vicinity and saw him step out of the tent, he’d immediately assist. With the flap closed behind him, he sighed a wispy puff of breath out into the crisp air.

“Can I help you with that?”

Cullen looked about, expecting to find Sam. Brigid approached him instead.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted with a nod. “Ah…no. I’ve got it, but thank you.” He pressed the plate of armor against his chest with one hand and reached around his back with the other for a strap that connected to its twin plate. Having already donned his gauntlets, he clanged about, struggling.

“Please, you stubborn man, let me.” Brigid approached him with only the slightest hesitation. It struck him that maneuvering her seat around other people was far different from maneuvering just her body. She made it easy to forget that she was still adapting to an entirely new way of living. Eventually, she pulled up alongside him and turned to assist. “Raise your arm.”

He did as she bid, careful to not hit her in her head. “I can usually manage this myself.”

She chuckled, threading a leather strap through a clasp and tugging hard. “It’s as frigid as Andraste’s tits this morning, Commander. And we’re getting old, not as spry as we used to be. If you’re anything like me, these icy mornings make movement near to impossible.” He laughed as she switched sides. “Other arm.”

“You’re making quick work of this. Do you dress knights often?”

She remained silent for a moment and he groaned. “Maker, of course not, you were raised nobility. You didn’t even dress yourself!” He groaned again, this time lifting his free hand to the back of his neck. “Maker preserve me, no, that’s not—I’m sure you were—“

“Relax, Commander,” she said with another firm pull of a strap. “You’re right, I didn’t dress knights. I did dress myself, however. And I assure you, ladies’ vestments have far more ties and lacings than any suit of armor… _that’s_ why I can make quick work of this.”

His whispered “of course” was soft, and thus drowned out by another growing sound. Some of Bull’s Chargers that had asked to come along began singing.

_I’ve a love I left back in Antiva,_

_When I joined with the Templar brigade._

_Eyes like two sapphires, a smile all aglow,_

_And tresses tied back in a braid._

The melody was familiar, but the words were not. Barracks songs tended to be like that—soldiers could remember the tunes but not the lyrics. A tune for the Templars stationed in Kirkwall would be an entirely different song than the exact same tune amongst the Ben-Hassrath on Seheron.

_A good night we had ‘fore I left town,_

_On an afternoon rainy and sad._

_Now all day and night I try to recall_

_If my love was a lass or a lad._

_Oh! I’ve loved lovely lasses and lads._

Cullen caught the sound of singing beneath his armpit and realized that Brigid had been humming along.

“A good tune!” she said in response, when he looked down at her, curiosity on his face. “I don’t recall all the words to this version. I prefer the one about the bear and the maiden.” With one final pull, his armor was secured, and she clapped her hands together as if dusting them off.

All he meant to do was look her in the face to give her a genuine thank you—a courtesy his father had taught him, ingrained many years ago. _But Maker_ , her green eyes shone up at him and he froze. _Verdant_ , Varric’s echo of his own word flew back to him. He had been right, though he didn’t even know it, green was his favorite. Her sparse, arched brows were speckled with copper and the green changed color right before his eyes, became so much deeper, how had he never seen this…this miraculous composition of color and shape on a human face? He’d write a poem about it, _make Varric write a poem about_ , he would never do it justice. It was imperative that the whole of Thedas knew about this phenomenon, it was a gift from the Maker, a blessing. _What have you just uncovered, Cullen, what is it?_

“Cullen! What is it?”

He blinked furiously, shook his head, cleared his throat. Anything to settle himself back into that cold morning. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor…what?”

Her eyebrows quirked up in disbelief. “Have I got something on my face? You’re staring, you looked horrified.”

One more grunt through his throat and he was back at attention. “No, your face is perfect. Just fine. I apologize, I have a bit of a headache. Thank you for your help, I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“No trouble,” she assured, apparently satisfied with his answer. “I’m going to start gathering the troops, shout if you need anything.” She departed in haste, humming the tune from earlier and he felt his ears go scarlet. He marched off as well, in the opposite direction, towards his Templars, absolutely distraught to learn that his enamored face was also his horrified face. His nascent migraine came back to him in a stab.

* * *

Thedosian history had taught Brigid that Adamant Fortress was built sometime around the Second Blight just alongside the Abyssal Rift. In its glory days, the keep housed Wardens and griffons, determined to fight back the darkspawn that emerged from the rift. But as the Western Approach decayed into a wasteland, they had abandoned it for Montsimmard. Solas, perhaps, had mentioned that a tranquil named Pharamond had planted himself in the fortress to conduct research, since the Veil was practically paper thin there. Or maybe she had read it in a book once, Solas’ voice ringing in her head. Regardless, Pharamond’s experiments allowed demons to overrun Adamant a year or two ago. Now, only the main keep remained, the rest having been razed by fire.

She could tell that the Fortress had been small, even in its prime. But it had tall walls and the pitch-black material that composed it gave it an eternally menacing air. Perhaps it was once grand and gallant, fit for the Wardens and their griffons that patrolled its surrounding lands. But when they arrived that evening, the thick scarlet clouds that served as its backdrop suggested pure evil.

Brigid turned and looked back at the sprawling party following her. Most startling was the large battering ram toward the vanguard. “The Right Fist of the Inquisition,” Varric had christened it. “Way cooler than either of the Divine’s hands,” (which she was not to repeat to Cassandra). A massive oaken trunk substituted an arm, with a balled fist of iron at the end of it. And then spikes, bigger than a man’s head, jutted out from it like weaponized knuckles. She couldn’t count how many men it took to haul the thing toward the Fortress. Further still were the ladders flanking the Fist. Though she had trained in Ostwick as a warrior, siege tactics were never high on her list of prioritized teachings. The road to Adamant had given her plenty of time to pick Cullen’s brain, and that of his second in command, so that she wasn’t entering the siege utterly ignorant. Rylen was enthusiastic to teach her a thing or two—she suspected that most inquiries typically went to the Commander, leaving Rylen rather in his shadow. So while she wasn’t terribly interested in the strategy of siege warfare past its basics, she entertained his lengthy sermons on military theory. At the very least, she might absorb some bit of useful information. In the meantime, she hoped she could boost Rylen’s confidence.

Now, the Fortress was nearing. Of course, _she_ was approaching _it_ , but in the impending tension of major battle, it felt much more like the Inquisition was standing still and the hellish structure was sliding up to meet them. What should she be thinking? What would the Commander be thinking? Something terribly practical, no doubt—which troops to send where, where to place the ladders, what part of the battle she’d be most suited to. Adamant was closer still. She should be stirring up her emotions in preparation. Lust had obviously been very effective at moving large stones, but she had been trying to remove it from her training repertoire out of respect for her unwitting Commander. The thought still brought a blush to her cheeks. Anger worked quite well, provided it was the right type of anger—the sort of thing that inspires vengeance was particularly successful. Tonight, however, called for fear. She suspected that fear was the most dangerous emotion with which to ignite her ability. If she had been trying to light a fire, using fear was very much like launching an oil-soaked fireball into the hearth. It was difficult to control; it ran away from itself in unpredictable ways. But she would need a substantial supply of emotions for this fight, and fear hummed skittishly in the air. Only later would she realize it was not fear at all, but anticipation.

They were close enough now that she could make out the tense expressions of the archers atop the Fortress battlements. 

“Hang back, Inquisitor.” She whipped her head to her right to see the Commander approaching on horseback. He was a paragon of knightly force, like something out of a fairy-tale she might have read as a child. It unsettled her to see him as such an abstract concept, but he hardly seemed real, all gleaming armor and armored mount, hundreds of eyes upon him waiting for orders.

She halted and let the men with the ram emerge from the mass of foot soldiers. “Break through, men! Until we’ve made it in, your brothers and sisters at arms are targets for the archers.” Brigid saw that his lips were somewhat curled back, as if in a snarl, and felt the thunderous boom of the Fist hitting the braced doors of the Fortress. Her head swam a bit and she couldn’t comprehend how anyone might behave usefully in a battle if such haziness was its effect. Had the battle started? Was there no pageantry like in storybooks? She supposed sieges worked differently, but couldn’t remember a thing that Rylen had taught her. She looked up at the battlements to see ladders latching themselves along the wall. She heard the bolt of a crossbow release, followed by the gurgling squeal of a man. Was it an Inquisition man? She scanned the walls but couldn’t tell. Another bolt released and shot into the dusty earth beside her.

The adrenaline kicked in.

Her head was still swimming, but her eyesight had never been clearer, even in the misleading shadows of dusk. The Fortress wasn’t black at all, she saw now—it was a silvery grey, much more suited to the wardens than she had initially thought. It was sturdily constructed, dwarven work, by the looks of its embellishments. But she could continue admiring its architecture some other time. The door was starting to buckle—the iron spikes of the ram were getting stuck now, and it was more work for the men to pull it back each time. One last thrust, and the doors swung open. She had expected a flood of opposition to come pouring out of the gate, and when she saw none, she approached.

Cullen had dropped off his horse and was standing beside her. “There’s too much resistance on the battlements, we can’t get a proper foothold. If you can clear out a couple of siege points—“

The adrenaline was working. She knew precisely what to do. Cut through the main bailey, make her way up to the battlements, and distract the archers. Thinking through her plan, she only nodded fervently at her Commander.

“Inquisitor,” he said, his eyes searching hers. He must have mistaken her silence for insecurity. “You can do this.” He put a hand on her shoulder as if to emphasize his assurance, but removed it just as quickly.

“I know. Preserve as many lives as possible, Commander.”

She could tell that he hadn’t expected that particular directive. “They know what they signed on for, Inquisitor. They’ll do their duty.”

She sat up straighter and removed a pair of daggers from their sheaths on either side of her calves. “Nothing unnecessary. They’re here to get me to Erimond and Clarel. Second priority is defending themselves.”

Her companions gathered themselves around her, Varric already smeared with a bit of blood clotted in his chest hair and Dorian with a comely slice along his cheek. Stroud and Blackwall were conversing with one another, the latter looking scandalized. She had been worried to bring the Warden along. What might he do—or be unable to do—if one his opponents were a corrupted old friend? In her heart, she knew he would do his duty. But at what cost?

Pushing aside her concerns for the time being, she pulled the straps of her light pauldrons a bit tighter. “Alright men, first we make our way through the main bailey.” She peeked into the area to see Inquisition forces already fighting against spellbound wardens. “Some of the wardens have resisted Erimond, try not to kill them if they’re with us. Then we get up to the battlements. Take out the archers, they’ve got too many. Without rifts to close, my attention will be on boulders, trees, hell, I’ll even try sand—anything I can get a hold of with some energy to fling at whoever is in the way.” All five men nodded in resolute agreement with her. She quite liked the feel of it and her confidence grew. “Whatever happens, we do _not_ let Erimond get away. We talk sense into Clarel if possible.” She shot a questioning glance at Blackwall with her final statement.

“She has a reputation as a reasonable woman,” he conceded.

Plans in order, the Inquistor’s party ran in to the main bailey where a litany of hypnotized wardens and shades wreaked havoc. Stroud and Blackwall wasted no time, charging headfirst into the fray, while Dorian, Hawke, and Varric held back to launch their attacks. It was a frenzy. Brigid was no stranger to a chaotic fight, but Adamant was quickly establishing itself as her personal record. A spellbinder took aim at her, and she reflexively flicked a dagger toward him. It lodged in his windpipe, releasing a raspy, arid sound just before he choked to death. A success, but now she was down a dagger. Per Dagna’s recommendation, the knife handles had been carved out of the branch of an old elm tree from Sykhold’s courtyard. She said the place was teeming with ancient magics of all kind, and that perhaps such a primitive vestige of nature could bond the daggers to her. Could disgust be a strong enough emotion to control the primi vinculum? Recalling the sound of the mage’s final gurglings, she closed her eyes and pictured the dagger in her hand. Obeying her command, the knife flew at her—she caught it by the blade. Were it not for her leather gloves, she’d have been cursing the Maker.

After that, she moved automatically, launching daggers and stones alike. She had been prepared to have to remind herself of her useful ability, but perhaps Solas was right—it had been part of her all along. Of _course_ the branches of the decrepit hornbeam in the middle of the yard would flail about if she twisted her hand at them. Of _course_ she could blow a gust of sand into the eyes of a pride demon with a sweep of her fingers.

The Inquisition’s forces made quick work of clearing the siege points, and quicker work of seeking out Clarel. With Blackwall’s help, they were able to convince the Warden-Commander of Erimond’s treachery. Brigid could see that she was a decent—if horrendously misled—woman. Likely the kind of woman that would never feel satisfied in her penance, not for the rest of her life. When she saw Clarel scowl at Erimond, the Inquisitor let herself think that perhaps things could be solved through diplomacy for once in her career. Then she heard the screeching sound from that dark night in Haven. _The dragon_. Erimond had called upon it, using it as a distraction. Shades, demons, and spellbound wardens encircled the party so that they couldn’t interfere with the duel between he and Clarel. Brigid could think of little else but helping the Warden-Commander. She wanted the woman to have a chance to repent. But the dragon landed in front of Clarel and snatched her in its jaws, faster than Trevelyan could comprehend. Brigid forced herself to watch. _She must always watch so that she may never deny these atrocities._ In watching, she saw the final spell that Clarel casted, sacrificing herself and destroying the great beast in one shot. The power of it crumbled the walkway beneath the party, and suddenly, she was falling. They were all falling, it seemed. Falling for ages, through the heavens, among the stars, through the dusty air, through all of Thedas. Would it ever end? Would they ever hit the ground? Dear Dorian’s beautiful face would hit the ground and she would haunt the Western Approach for eons, atoning for the tragedy of it. She put her hands out in front of her as an impulse, as though she would catch herself. Soon it would all go black, and soon it certainly did. But before it went black, it went green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Green Eyes" (Coldplay): https://youtu.be/gmyq9tIiu8g
> 
> Y'all don't even KNOW how far my head has been in Westeros these past few weeks. Are there any DA/ASoIaF crossover fics worth reading? I'm new and uninitiated around here.


	8. I Wish I Was the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the one with my heart in my lap...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen is a grump and needs help shaving but doesn't want to admit it. Brigid regrets her offer but not really.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

Sam stood frozen behind the taller scout that addressed the Commander. “I’m sorry, Commander, I know it’s not a good explanation. They don’t know what happened to them.” Cullen sat up from the sickbed he’d been forced into and rubbed at his temples with his left hand. The gesture was clumsy, he nearly poked himself in the eye. “They were there one minute, vanished the next. Into one them—“ the scout wiggled his fingers and made a queasy face.

“A rift, sir,” Sam finished.

Cullen dropped his hand as if he might be able to stop his sinking heart. He had more questions, but neither Sam nor the nameless, _clueless_ scout had answers. “Thank you, you’re dismissed.” The scout turned to leave immediately, but Sam paused, eyeing Cullen with concern. It took a second nod of his head to assure Sam that he was alright.

After the Inquisitor’s party cleared the battlements, Cullen’s immediate forces had little trouble infiltrating the bulk of Adamant. By the time he made it to the main bailey, Brigid and company were elsewhere, likely searching for Clarel. He wasn’t in the mood to do much else besides fight—he didn’t relish killing, at least not these days, but the adrenaline felt like the only pure way to purge the lyrium from his body, and he was glad for anything that sped up the process. So he remained by the splintered front gate, battling against those men and women who were so far gone, they knew only how to fight to their death. He’d give them that gift, at least. It was an aggressive fight, but not a terribly damaging one. He would have made it out of Adamant practically unscathed, if it weren’t for the damned tree root that caught the toe of his boot. He came crashing down onto a large boulder, dislocating his right shoulder. He cursed himself and the lyrium—had he trained harder, better, the muscles that wrapped around his shoulder would have been tougher, stronger. It never would have dislodged itself. As it were, he could hardly grip his sword, so he tore off a long strip of his tunic and fashioned it into something resembling a sling, fully prepared to seek out and assist his Inquisitor. But he felt terribly faint—from pain, dehydration, the lyrium, perhaps some combination of the three. Rather against his will, he was toted back to the healer’s tent by Rylen, who insisted the bulk of the fight was over and the Inquisitor was merely finishing up some diplomacy. When he arrived, the healer scolded him for his shabby sling and forced a curative draught to his lips. “Just some herbs, Commander,” she assured him when he grimaced. “Even we here know not to touch you with magic.” The draught was more sleeping potion than anything else, and though it staved off his lyrium nightmares, he knew he had dreamt about losing himself. When he woke, still in the sick bed, he called for an immediate update. This was as much as he remembered.

The reprimanding healer entered the tent. “Finally up, I see.”

He wanted to get off the cot, find his armor, reapply some wax to the unruly mess of hair he was sure he sported. But at his first attempt to stand, she marched over to him, wiping her leathern hands against her smudged apron. “Oh no you don’t, Commander. Not on my watch. You keep resting.” She tugged at the neck of his loose tunic to inspect the injured shoulder. He saw a large bloom of purple, brown around the edges.

“Lady healer, I’m not here to make your job difficult, but you must let me check in with my captains. I’m more than sufficiently rested.”

“I’ll call Ser Rylen in, if it’ll keep you seated. But you’re not leaving the tent. Inquisitor’s orders, direct from the lady herself.”

How could Brigid possibly order such a thing if she were missing. “What do you mean direct from the lady herself?”

“Healers received a missive from Adan just after Verchiel. ‘Commander Rutherford, by instruction of the Inquisitor, should be closely attended regarding his health and safety. Should he sustain injury, he should not be permitted back on the field until her Worship allows. No unnecessary strains, body or mind.’ Or something like that, anyway.” She sifted through a small satchel caked in dust. “Never thought I’d be the one to tend to you, but Maker take me if I compromise my duty, Commander.” He could see she was a homely woman, but more than capable. He wondered how many snapped bones she’d splinted, how many babes her thin forearms had pulled into this world. Out of the bag, she produced a small square of parchment and handed it to him. The Inquisitor’s seal and signature, just as she’d claimed. The nerve.

The flaps of the tent pulled open and Rylen ducked in. “Commander,” he nodded, looking at the healer as if to encourage her to step out. She need not be asked, though she was clearly irked by the interruption of her work.

“Thank you for your good work, my lady. And for the improved sling,” Cullen did not begrudge the woman, no matter his frustrations. She clicked her tongue as if to tease him, but nodded her head graciously all the same.

“Commander, the Inquisitor is missing. Along with Masters Pavus and Tethras, Blackwall, the Champion, and his Warden. All of them. Vanished.”

The soft haze of sleep had lifted and was replaced by a cold, sharp ache up his neck and across his shoulders. Cullen stood despite it. “Battle outcome first. Impossible physics later.”

“It was as you anticipated, ser. Once we breached her walls, the enemy was too stunned to do much. Most of our losses were incurred before the ram broke through. More dead, than injured. Don’t know if that’s a blessing or not, but the men feel like they’re able to wash their hands of the whole thing and move on.”

Cullen nodded solemnly. If Rylen hadn’t named names, then he was suggesting that they hadn’t lost anyone that was irreplaceable—heartless as it seemed to say so. “The Inquisitor’s party, then. The scout told me they fell into a rift?”

“I saw the bridge collapse—Clarel, Erimond, the dragon, the whole lot of the party, some of the wardens. Then a gaping green hole tore open. Out of thin air.”

“Is it spewing out demons and monsters?” He was exasperated.

“No, but we’ve got men on all sides of it.”

“For the best.”

Rylen shuffled a bit, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “What about you, ser? How’s the shoulder?”

“Oh, it’s perfectly fine.” He ventured to roll it as an illustration, but it was far more tender than he expected. He tried to hide the wince from his second. “But I’ve been confined to this tent by demand of the Inquisitor, apparently. So despite feeling quite well and there being bodies to retrieve and tend to, I can’t leave this Maker forsaken cot.”

Rylen was clearly uncomfortable. Cullen rarely, if ever, complained, and his second in command had no precedent for comforting him. “Well I’ll keep you updated, ser. Perhaps there’s correspondence to attend to.”

The notion tightened the muscles in Cullen’s neck, made his hands cramp. All the relief that a bit of good, honest hand-to-hand combat had provided him was gone and forgotten with the mere mention of letter writing. “When did you get so damnably reasonable, Ser Rylen?”

The captain huffed out a rusty laugh and squared his shoulders. “Must be the influence of my Commander.”

* * *

If she could move stones and dirt with her mind, why could she never stop herself from hitting those stones and that dirt so painfully hard whenever she fell? It was a useless question to ask herself when she woke up with the worst headache she’d ever known, but it was the first thing to come to mind. And then she realized it was a blessing. Even if only for a moment, her conscience had tried to spare her from the memories of the Fade. It didn’t come back to her in a rush, but instead, like waves lap against the shore when the tide rises—just a bit at first, then it wanes…then a bit more, until her brain was swimming in a slosh of images. Of truths. The truth of sacrificing Stroud to that Nightmare. The truth of desiring that recovered ability to walk. The truth of those headstones. Perhaps, if she didn’t open her eyes here in the real, true world, she wouldn’t have to admit to anyone what happened. But she had to sit up. Suddenly she had to sit up to remind herself that she was alive and that the Fade was just the Fade.

Her head felt heavy as a druffalo, but she lifted it all the same. Across from her cot sat its twin, bowing under the weight of the Commander, slouched over in concentration. At the sound of her rustling, he looked up and grimaced.

“Inquisitor. You’re awake.” It was not a declaration of surprise, or of questioning. It was a statement—the same as noting that it had snowed the night before, or acknowledging the hour a chantry bell struck.

“How long have I been out?”

“A couple of hours. You were mostly lucid when you came back to us, but we didn’t want to take any chances. Thought you needed rest.”

“Thank you, for that. But there is much to attend to,” she said, seeking out her seat in preparation to rise.

“Yes, you and I think the same way. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the same authority when I was brought here,” his gaze never left the page the he was trying to scrawl at, but his voice sharpened.

“Were you hurt?” The question was both innocent curiosity and genuine concern.

“Dislocated shoulder. Rather routine. Not like tearing open a rift and falling into it.”

“I don't mean to always make things so dramatic,” she said, hoping he might turn up the corners of his mouth. Or even just one corner.

“And yet they always are.” He was not amused. “Tell me, Inquisitor, what prompted you to shackle me to a sick tent in the wake of battle?”

She was unused to his disappointment. Whether it made for good diplomacy or otherwise, the Inquisitor and the Commander typically saw eye-to-eye. They both valued a hands-on approach, neither was opposed to military intervention, and they preferred simple terms to finely-crafted speech. Thank the Maker for Josephine, she would have to give the woman a pay increase and perhaps a day or two off. As it were, they rarely felt conflict with another, even when they disagreed. She used to say that her and her mother spoke different languages when they tried to have a conversation, so it was no wonder they never settled anything. She and Cullen spoke the same language. Perhaps even the same dialect. This is how she knew that he was not merely annoyed—he was livid.

“You are invaluable, Commander. I only asked that the healers pay you a bit of extra attention if you were harmed.”

He finally looked up and the heat in his stare discomforted her. “Quote: ‘Should he sustain injury, he should not be permitted back on the field until her Worship allows.’ That’s more than a bit of extra attention.”

“When one of your soldiers is injured, do you send him back out into the fray?”

“If he loses a leg, no. But if he nicks his cheek, he damn well better keep on fighting.”

“I should think that a dislocated shoulder is quite a bit more serious than a shallow flesh wound, Commander, don’t be so reductive.”

“Reductive? Oh, that’s rich. You castrate your military Commander because you assume his withdrawal has weakened him. _You_ reduce me to my struggles.”

She couldn’t suppress the laugh that shot through her nose. “Castration…now who’s being dramatic? “

“It was a mild injury, Inquisitor. I could have rejoined the men to help make sense of the rubble and destruction.” _And to go to you_ , he omitted.

“So the battle was over when you hurt yourself? If you’re angry that you weren’t able to fight more, it sounds like it was the fault of your soldiers for making such quick work of the enemy.” 

“Do not fault them, even in jest.”

She saw that he was determined to be unreasonable. His anger weighed heavy in her ears and spread through her aching head until she could taste the acid of his remarks on her tongue. “You’re right-handed, aren’t you?”

The gold flicker of his eyes was barely visible beneath his brooding brow. “What of it?”

“It’s no wonder you’re cranky, you’re trying to write letters with your left hand.”

“I’m not cranky, Inquisitor, I’m angry. I know my limits better than you do. You had no right to confine me to a sick tent. I told you about the lyrium under the assumption that you would not use it against me. Or pity me. I thought of all people, you would be understanding of that, at least.”

Silence fell, drowsy as it sought to sink itself in ever corner of the tent.

“I do not pity you, Commander. I cannot think of a more capable person on the field of battle. And you’re right, you know your limits. But you never mind them, don’t pretend otherwise.” He opened his mouth to protest, but there was no force behind it, so he sat back. “I hold your trust tenderly, I did not mean to take advantage of it. I—I worry about you. Whether I need to or not. But I was wrong. I should not have ordered that you be taken care of so…strictly.”

Perhaps he had not been expecting an apology. Perhaps he had prepared for a much longer argument. He looked rather like a knight who had shown up fully armored to fend off a fennec. No matter how resolutely she looked at him, she could not coax his gaze away from the parchment on his lap. “Yes…well…now we understand each other. I apologize if I misread your…concern.” The silence threatened again, until he cursed under his breath and tossed his quill on the table beside his cot. The parchment followed after.

She ought to leave her bed, leave the tent, and seek out Dorian or Varric, anyone that had been in the Fade with her. They ought to talk through what happened—document it, so as to make it merely business. But it was late and she was hesitant to revisit the experience. Not afraid, she hoped. Merely tired. A menial task like writing would do well to lull her to sleep. “Would you like some help with that?”

He scratched his head and then shook it. “No, I’ve got no mind for it tonight, anyway.” He stood up and plodded to the washbasin. The water looked cool and clean, but the vessel was stained by Maker knows what—as most tools of healers are, just following a battle the size of Adamant’s siege. His posture was unbalanced, no doubt from the injured shoulder, but his back seemed as sturdy as ever. She watched as he tried to balance a polished mirror on the table. _He was attempting to shave_ , she realized. He usually wore a faint dusting of stubble along his chin and jaw, but she saw now that it was grown out, perhaps to half an inch. The length at which it starts to itch, she knew. It took some maneuvering, but he got the mirror steady and lathered his face. He picked the straight razor up with his only good hand and held it up to his face. He tipped his head to the left and then to the right, grumbling all the while. One stroke attempted before he cursed softly. An amusing sight, with his white and foamy beard.

“Commander.”

“What?” he barked.

“Would you like assistance?”

“I can shave myself, Inquisitor.” His voice was tight and distorted as he craned his chin up at the mirror, full attention given to the blade in his hand.

“Clearly…you cannot.” She waved her seat over and adjusted herself into it. It had begun to feel like home, even if the disuse of her legs remained foreign. She approached his cot and cleared her throat. “Come, Commander. Bring the washbasin.”

“I will not allow my superior to groom me.” He had already picked up the bowl.

“Let a friend help you, Cullen. You’ve already taken off a crooked stripe of hair, you can’t leave yourself like that.”

He muttered under his breath, but sat down on the bed in front of her, all the same. She took the razor from his hand, and paid no mind to the brush of his calloused finger across her knuckles as he passed the blade. She inspected it far longer than she had any need to, but she was terrified to look at his face. She had offered the assistance without thinking of what it would entail. A solid excuse to study his face, _touch_ his face. But would her own face betray her increasing heart rate? What in Thedas possessed her to propose such a ludicrously intimate process?

“Have you done this before?” His voice was steady. She envied it.

“Shaved? Yes, many times. My father’s face once, when the tremors got bad. Before he decided to grow out the beard.” He was too tall, even sitting down, for her to get the proper angle, so she willed her seat to elevate six inches or so.

“Have you always been able to do that?” He asked, pulling his head back.

Something in the question boosted her confidence. “No, it took a fair bit of practice. But I’m no longer surprised when I will something to move. It’s too tiring to feign shock.”

He laughed very quietly and lifted his chin. Such a vulnerable position, she realized. He was always draped in armor, in furs, in layers of protection. But here he sat with his neck exposed, and she, with a blade in her hand. She could count the shallow wrinkles that creased across his Adam’s apple. She could see gooseflesh standing, or perhaps simply hair follicles, she was so near to him that she could count individual hairs. She was close enough to see the feather thin lines that curved along either side of his mouth, even when he made no expression. Joy. Worry. Pain. She could see the shiny, tight edges of the scar on his lip. The terrifying prospect of his mortality stirred her and she made a quiet vow. _By my will, Cullen Rutherford, you will never know harm._ She lifted her left hand up to his cheekbone and pulled the skin up, taught with her thumb. _Better to not nick the flesh_ , her father had taught her. Blade between her other thumb and forefinger, she scraped it against the grain of the errant hairs on his cheek until she had erased a strip of lather.

“A clean shave?” she asked, to clear some of the tension. “Or would you like to work on a mustache to match Master Pavus?”

He grunted in amusement, trying not to move a muscle of his face. He could not stop his nostrils from flaring. When Brigid pulled the razor away to rinse it in the basin, he opened his lips just enough to speak. “Please, no.” It was a gentle, sincere request and it set her at ease. “Tell me, Inquisitor. What happened in the Fade?”

She still wanted to avoid the subject, but she knew it would be good for her. Like bleeding poison from a wound or pulling out a painful splinter. “I wasn’t trying to open a rift. I was anticipating hitting the ground, actually.” The shaving went smoothly as long as her eyes didn’t linger on any one spot for too long. “When we got there, it didn’t look like dreaming, we were physically _there_. Justinia—or her spirit, rather—found us. Guided us through the wasteland.” She raised his chin to work at his neck and made a mental map of his jaw. _More than worth coming back for._ “We were made to encounter our own worst fears. Fight off demons. I was shown memories of what happened at the Conclave.” She saw his eyebrows lift in response. “And then—“ It was hard to recall. When she tended to the space just below his nose, her fingers moved in increments smaller than she knew them capable of. More than once, her thumb brushed his top lip. It was painful, dividing her attention between the task at hand and the task of not allowing her hand to tremble. Occasionally, she could hear him swallow—otherwise, he was silent as the grave. “There was a nightmare. Relentless. We had found the rift opening, we were mere feet away from returning. But it guarded it. It was too much, we couldn’t destroy it. Hurt it, perhaps. Anger it. Nothing brought it down or even stopped it for more than a breath. Hawke and Stroud pulled away to speak for a moment. They decided that one of them would stay back, distract the beast while everyone else went through. They fought it out, who would get to sacrifice himself. And then they left it up to me.” Her hand shook as she imagined it and a dab of the lather flicked to his lower lip. They both froze. She swept her little finger across the foam, across the soft flesh of his lip, and stopped breathing altogether. The tips of his ears had gone red, which she resolutely ignored. Her head felt watery, but she knew it was from her shallow breathing, lest the slightest rise or fall of her chest compromise her precision. “I told Stroud to stay.” The admission hung heavy between them. When she finished her task, she sent a quick prayer of thanks to the Maker and said goodbye to the miraculous moment. It had been a series of moments, but it was one singular blessing, this proximity to her Commander’s face. _He is not yours to admire, Brigid_. She had to willfully remind herself these days. She sought out the cleanest cloth she could find and pressed it against his face, wiping away the remnants of soap lather and bits of hair.

“There.” She only trusted herself with one word, so as not to hear her own voice shake.

He blinked widely a couple of times as if to wake himself up, and rubbed his good hand along his jaw and chin. “Better than I normally do.”

Brigid turned away immediately, couldn’t look him in the eyes. “Glad to help Commander. Please excuse me, I should check in with the others.”

“Inquisitor? Wait, I—” He stood up, and away from the bed, but she refused her eyes.

“You can expect a full report tomorrow.” She felt certain he had said her name. Not her title, but her _name_. He had said it before, but she was sure it would be different now if she watched him form the syllables. It wasn’t until she was fifty yards away from the tent that she took a deep breath and felt her spine shiver. The moon was full and yellow, serene and sure of itself, accusatorily cheery, as if to say, _I saw you, young lady, what ever will you do now_? It spoke in Dorian’s voice, _the bastard_. She would have to invent an excuse for her hurried exit at some point, but that would be later. Later, she would atone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I Wish I Was the Moon" (Neko Case): https://youtu.be/gCV-YMD6oXA
> 
> (This song gives me ALL of the FEELS. It will likely appear again.)


	9. The Lion's Roar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And every once in a while I'd sing a song for you  
> That would rise above the mountains and the stars and the sea  
> And if I wanted it to it would lead you back to me...

Migraines were a bit like caged animals. The big ones—bears, tigers, lions. Oftentimes—if you were lucky, most of the time—the lion would laze about in the sunshine, nap, lick itself clean in drowsy contentment. Most people’s lions did this every day. Cullen’s lion was not so complacent. His paced back and forth along the bars, most days and nights. If he were careful, he could go about his business and not disturb the animal’s nervous marching. Steady breathing. Calm routine. Maker forbid some shocking event or news trigger the lion—Cullen best filter it with composure, present it to the creature meekly, and control his blood pressure. Inevitably, he would slip, and the beast would lash out at the bars, bare its teeth, and roar until Cullen’s ears rang. It took hours, sometimes days to calm the lion when this happened. He could work through its tantrum, if need be—and he always needed to, there was too much to get done, even if it meant getting it done poorly or slowly and being miserable all the while. But on occasion, Cullen could stagger up to his office, up into his loft, onto his bed, and hold perfectly still. Blessedly still. Eyes closed, arms above his head to muffle against his ears, breathing shallow and steady. It was the only way to lull the lion back to its uneasy tranquility. It was a slow, exhausting process, to lie there without falling asleep. Unless the sleep was brought on by pure physical exhaustion, it brought new and fresh horrors to mind, so he had to be careful to not doze off. When he thought about what a waste of time the whole business was, he had to scold himself. That sort of guilt-addled thinking gave the lion new strength.

Three days after they had returned to Skyhold from Adamant, Cullen lie in his bed, just like this. It was the heart of winter and the nights came so quickly that he couldn’t tell whether he’d be at rest for half an hour or five of them straight. He heard a knock on his door, but let it be. Messengers knew that if the door was unlocked and he didn’t answer, missives could be left on his desk. The important messengers knew this, anyway. After a third knock, the door creaked open and he heard Sam announce himself.

“Your copy of the Inquisitor’s report on Adamant, Commander. I’ll leave it on your desk.”

The boy left, pulling the door shut gently. Cullen had never told him of his ailments, of course, but he sensed he understood them all the same. Coming off of heavy drinking had comparable effects, perhaps Sam knew someone who struggled similarly. More likely, the Commander’s appearance was finally starting to betray the pains he suffered. He had been eating less, that much was true, but he worked himself just as hard in the training yard. It was no wonder his face was looking a bit hollow. And the circles under his eyes got darker by the day. His tunics fit the same across his chest, but they were hanging looser on his arms. Yes, Sam was a clever boy, surely he saw past Cullen’s attempts to keep up his energy.

The lion of a migraine seemed to have dozed off, but he maintained his breathing and kept his eyes closed, just in case. It was known to feign sleep. He felt pricks of something cold on his face and melted into the mattress. It was snowing in Skyhold. As cold as it got up in the Frostbacks, it didn’t snow nearly as often as he had expected. He’d asked Gatsi to leave the gaping hole open in his ceiling in hopes of this very event. The child in him livened to think of it snowing in his bedroom. He never had a room of his own in the Order, and he shared quarters in Haven for the sake of saving space. But this little loft was his, and his alone, and he indulged his childish fantasy of living amongst the wilds of nature. He ventured to open his eyes and saw a dull, dark purple sky. Nearly black. But snow clouds at night gave off a soft violet glow that blotted out all the stars. He felt covered by a cool blanket, from which he never wanted to be parted. But the report was down below and his stomach growled rather rudely.

He slid down the ladder and retrieved the small folder Sam had left, before opening up a drawer to seek a charcoal stick. He’d want to draw out the battle plans on the back, perhaps, for posterity’s sake—the ladders hadn’t worked as he had planned and he needed that fact documented somewhere. He opened the wrong drawer and stared down at the lyrium kit. His body hummed as if it were trying to call the philter to itself. It looked like alchemy in a box. Something unholy and forbidden. He knew it was nothing so grand—just a crutch, a tool, that he had once relied too heavily upon. A small pouch that he didn’t recognize sat tucked beside the box. _My mother used to say they were good for headaches. I’m sure you ought to eat anyway_. The note tied around it bore Cassandra’s signature. He opened it to find a dozen or two perfect almonds. In the privacy of his office, Cullen grinned unabashedly and said a quiet prayer of thanks to the Maker for such a friend as dear Cass. He hadn’t expected her to nurse him through his detox—just watch him, really. But for all her layers of tough exterior, she was nurturer at heart. With all the caution of an uneasy stomach, he tried a nut, and then another. They were just bland enough to not stir his nausea, and substantial enough to quiet its grumbling.

He picked up the report and flipped through until he found the subheading he was looking for: “ _Into the Fade_.” It was just as Brigid had described back in the healer’s tent—though far more detailed. She had left out the bit about walking, he noticed. _“Though the seat came with me through the rift, I did not seem to need it. Clearly, it was not a dream—the injuries we suffered there remained with us when we returned. I do not know how to account for such a miracle. I suppose I carried the seat with me as we traveled through the wasteland, for it came back with me. But I don’t recall clearly. I suspect our time in the Fade was a dire mistake. We should never have been there.”_ Cullen made a mental note to bring this excerpt to the attention of Solas, if he’d not already seen it. He skimmed a bit further until the word “Conclave” caught his eye.

_“I was shown the explosion at the Conclave, including the parts I didn’t remember. Divine Justinia was kidnapped by enthralled Grey Wardens, it seemed. She was to be used by Corypheus in some kind of ceremony that would sacrifice her to gain some sort of power. I walked in on the ritual by mistake. She was being held in the air, tortured. He had a sphere in his hand. Justinia saw her chance when I distracted them. She knocked the orb from him and I picked it up. That’s how I opened the Breach, and I assume that’s how I got the mark on my hand. Justinia and I fell into the Fade, then. She helped me escape by staying behind, herself. It was not Andraste behind me when I fell back into this world. It seems I am the unwitting cause of so much of this. I see now why it has fallen to me to fix it.”_

It wasn’t protocol to include the bit of prosody at the end. From anyone else, it might have irritated him, having to read through frivolity to get to the facts. As it were, the last two statements broke his heart. He read them over and over again until he heard a knock on his door. “Come in.”

Cassandra opened the door hesitantly and stepped in. “I’m glad to see you up and about. Sam said you weren’t feeling well.”

Cullen’s eyes lingered an extra few seconds on the page until he sat it down amongst the others. “I wasn’t. I’m alright now. When did you sneak in here with the almonds?”

“Weeks ago, actually,” she said, shutting the door.

“You sound surprised that I found them.”

“No, it’s just…that means it’s been weeks since you last looked in that drawer.” Her lilting accent was oddly soothing in the chill of his office.

“At least weeks. Maybe a month, if I think about it.” He tried to arrange the pages of the report back into their proper order, but he would settle for just getting them into a neat stack. “It doesn’t sing to me as loudly, anymore. The aches and nightmares are just as bad as ever, but I no longer hear its call.”

She rested her hip against one of the bookcases. “That is a good sign, Commander. I think you will prove me right.”

“Right in what?”

“In your survival. You have no idea what kind of precedent you’re setting for Templars all over Thedas.” He huffed in laughter. “I know that wasn’t your goal, but I know your tendencies to think yourself selfish. You’re helping others too. Remember it if you ever need more encouragement.”

“I appreciate that. Really, I do. Thank you. For all of it.”

She hesitated. “No ‘but’ in that statement?”

“No. You have my undivided, genuine gratitude.” They both knew the depth of their camaraderie, but neither was eager to voice it. A pair of hardened soldiers, they were. The lack of sarcasm was as good as a hug between them. “I suspect that’s not why you’re here, though?”

Her face lightened in recollection. “No, I come with a message from the Inquisitor. We leave for Halamshiral in two days. While you were in Adamant, Josie, Vivienne, and myself were left to plan for Celene’s ball.” Cullen groaned, sure his migraine would spring back to life at any moment. “The Inquisitor wants my presence, as well as that of Dorian and Varric…and her advisors, of course. She was going to tell you herself, but I thought you were indisposed.”

The migraine slept, but the tension in his shoulders made his recent injury ache. “What use could I possibly be to this mission?”

“Security detail, I assume. Not to worry, the Inquisitor is taking the brunt of the social responsibilities for us. Well, her and Josephine. The Ambassador has been pulling her hair out trying to invent a way for someone to dance sitting down. The Inquisitor feels like she’s making things more difficult than need be, despite our assurances that her guilt is nonsense. It ought to be quite a disaster, you should be more excited to witness it.”

“Maker, that poor woman.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you read her report on Adamant yet?”

“No, not yet.”

He reached out an arm to give her the folder and slunk back into his chair. “She was incredible. Absolutely brilliant, the way she diffused the forces on the battlements, the way she reasoned with Clarel. And then—“

Cassandra had been reading when she interrupted Cullen. “Into the Fade? She went into the Fade again?”

“Keep reading, it gets worse.”

He could see the Seeker’s eyes scan across the page as she mouthed most of the words silently. “She could walk…”

“… _Justinia_ …”

“…the Conclave…”

“…Stroud…”

He recalled Brigid’s phrase, “ _the unwitting cause_ …”

Cassandra finished and closed the folder in reverie. “She knows that none of this is her fault, right?”

“I don’t know, Cass, I—“

“That all of this is the result of the machinations of that evil… _thing_. And of poor policy that’s been festering between mages and Templars for ages, perhaps. But not because of her.”

“Put yourself in her position. Would you not blame yourself?”

She thought on it for a moment. “I know that _you_ would. Maker, you two can be so alike sometimes. So… _righteous_.”

“At least she’s righteous in an attempt to live up to her reputation. Mine is to atone for all the damage I’ve done.”

“Will you ever give it up? You’re doing decent work here, Cullen. Let some of that guilt go.” She glanced back through the report and added, under her breath, “and for the love of the Maker, please kiss the woman.”

He did his best to furrow his brow, wrinkle his nose, and gape his mouth wide open in shock. “Kiss? Wha—who, the Inquisitor?”

She mocked his incredulous expression. “ _What? The Inquisitor?_ Yes, you dolt. When I told her I would give you the news about Halamshiral because you weren’t feeling well, she looked ready to cry out of worry for you. And you can’t pass up an opportunity to talk about how wonderful she is. To anyone besides _her_ , of course.”

He brushed off her claim. “She shows that kind of concern for everyone, you know that. And I’m proud to have a competent leader. But I’m not going to lavish her in compliments until it looks like I’m trying to get special favor.”

“Cullen.”

“ _Cassandra_.”

“I am your dearest friend. What would Mia say? That you’re being stubborn?”

“Mia’s the stubborn one.” He heard the petulance in his voice and knew he was being childish. “I don’t know what she’d say. _I_ don’t know what to say. The Inquisitor is…she’s remarkable. Better than I deserve, I suspect. But this is no time, no place to woo anyone, let alone the Maker-forsaken savior of the whole damn world.”

“You know what she’s going through. She has all the support in the world. But she could use love, too.”

“Everyone loves her." 

“You know what I mean.” Her stare was cold and sharp, but full of truth. He nodded and scratched the back of his neck, but couldn’t summon a response. “I won’t bother you more on the subject. You know what I think you should do. Varric thinks so too. I’ll see you tomorrow in the training yard.”

* * *

 

“This is what we’re to wear at the Winter Palace?” Brigid held the jacket of the ensemble before her. She hadn’t expected so many…colors.

Josephine tried not to sound too defensive. “Yes, Inquisitor. We want to present a unified front to Orlais. After conferring with a well-respected seamstress in Val Royeaux, I determined this was the most universally flattering design, given our retinue.”

She wanted so terribly to like it. But it was so red…and blue…and she was still such a Free Marcher. “Thank you for your efforts, Ambassador. We will all look splendid.”

They had gathered in Brigid’s quarters for the meeting—all of the companions that would be joining her, plus Josephine and Leliana. The Commander claimed some urgent business with the Warden recruits that would take all day, and thus got out of the gathering. After uniforms had been distributed, the party filed out of her room, with the exception of the Ambassador.

“You are displeased, Inquisitor?”

“Oh! No, not at all. Please, call me Brigid. Especially when it’s just the two of us talking about clothes.”

“Well then, Brigid…you know I am trained and practiced in reading body language? I can tell you are less than thrilled with the uniform. It’s alright, I am not offended.”

“It’s not…” she wanted to measure her words carefully. “I understand perfectly why they look as they do. What you said about a unified front. It is politically sound, and I’m grateful to have someone by my side with such forethought.”

“But…?”

“But…oh, it’s silly. I just…I heard ‘ball’ and I thought perhaps I’d get to wear a fancy gown and fix my hair nice. It’s so silly, this is much better.”

“Forgive me, Inqu—Brigid. I did not realize you enjoyed such femininities. I am foolish to say so, but I always see you in battle regalia and uniforms. I thought you preferred it.”

“It’s funny. Normally I do. I was raised with all the femininities, you know. And I resented it. But now…I spend so many days covered in mud and dust and blood. With heavy boots and rough tunics. Alas, Halamshiral is neither the place, nor time to indulge my girlish fantasies. Whispers of an assassination plot against the Empress and I’m pining over silk and lace…ridiculous of me.”

“Perhaps I can arrange for another celebration? Here in Skyhold, to coincide with Wintersend. Everything at your discretion, of course. Oh, Brigid, it could be such fun!”

“Is it not too indulgent? Surely it would cost too much?”

“It’s rather perfect, actually. There are a handful of nobles that have been pestering me for a visit. Some of them want to see Skyhold. Some of them want to see _you_ , but won’t be at Halamshiral. I always assumed something like this would need to happen eventually. Wintersend is as good a time as any. Growth, new beginnings…the arrangement of marriages.”

“The arrangement of _what_?”

Josephine acted as if she’d heard nothing. “I must be going, Inquisitor. I’ll leave this with you,” she said, extending a sizeable box identical to the ones she’d sent the others off with. “Can I trust you’ll get this to the Commander?”

“Yes…of course.” Josephine bowed her head, ever so diplomatically, and exited.

Brigid had other business to attend to before seeking out the Commander. But she couldn’t remember any of it to save her life, so she made her way down to the training camps outside the gates. She had sought out Cullen there on a handful of occasions when they’d first arrived as Skyhold, but lately, he was more likely to be found in his office. The development of the grounds since her last visit startled her. The Commander’s tent was set up closest to Skyhold, and branching out from it like a web were the many divisions of men and women who had pledged themselves to the Inquisition: seasoned Templars that had escaped from Lord Seeker Lucius with Ser Barris, the Wardens that had returned with her after Adamant, a troop of Fereldans that King Alistair had loaned to their cause, a selection of well-born Orlesian knights. All of these trained orders surrounded the largest group of soldiers—an assortment of trainees, likely from farms and merchant shops. It ought to have been utter chaos, and to the untrained eye, looked very much like it. But it wasn’t chaos—it was the well-orchestrated activity of a hive, producing, moving, _producing_. Not items, not merchandise, but skill. Capability.

“Lady Inquisitor!” Rylen approached from the vicinity of the Fereldan soldiers. “What brings you down amongst the dogs?”

She was still absorbing the sight, a bit stunned. “This is remarkable.”

“We’re certainly not lacking in number any longer.” He was like a proud father.

“No, I should say not…but I meant the arrangement. The Commander closest to our gates, more experienced troops surrounding those that are still being trained.”

“In case of attack.” He finished her train of thought. “We learned from Haven.”

“Forethought via hindsight. Perhaps the only silver lining in tragedy.”

“Yes, the Commander was determined that their sacrifice not go to waste.”

“Did he design this?”

“Of course. He’s the only thing keeping the whole mess running. Through sheer force of willpower alone, I should add. But I’m sure you know that.”

She smiled, sadly. Cullen always did work himself to death. “Do you know where I can find him? I’ve something for him from the Ambassador.”

“Right this way,” he gestured for her to follow toward the large red-trimmed tent ahead of them. “He’s meeting with some Wardens. Still trying to find a Commander of their own.”

Stroud would have been the man, Brigid thought to herself. But surely someone amongst their ranks could manage the task. She didn’t have to wait long for the Wardens to finish their business, as three of them strode out with the Commander following.

“We’ll continue discussing this, next time with the Ambassador present.”

All three Wardens seemed less than enthused at the notion, but only the younger man spoke up. “That ought to go brilliantly.”

“We’ll find a solution, this I swear. But let’s not rely on Weisshaupt making a decision any time soon. Get a feel for the thoughts of the Wardens in camp before we talk next.”

The oldest of the three—a bald-headed man with a mess of coarse grey hair hanging from his chin—was the only to make a formal gesture of respect toward the Commander. Brigid wondered why he wasn’t a good enough option, at least for the time being.

“Inquisitor! What brings you here?” He was alight. The last time he looked this comfortable was at the start of Adamant’s siege. Now, he looked just as contented, but without the worry of impending battle. He was smiling, in fact, though only barely. It was enough to be contagious.

“Oh, we’ll save that for later. Commander, this whole,” she gestured all around her, “…everything. It’s incredible. I hear you’re the orchestrator?”

Cullen wasn’t normally one to beam, but he did his best version of it, filled with a sort of paternal pride. “They’re good soldiers. I speak to as many of them as I can, train as many as I can, even if it’s only a moment of advice. I feel like I owe them that, at least, if they’re willing to give their lives for us.”

“Your investment in them builds their loyalty. I hear the way they talk about you, the way they believe in you.” She chanced a look at him and saw that his cheeks and the bridge of his nose had gone rosy. “You’re doing good work, Commander.”

“I almost suspect you’re trying to make me blush. But thank you.” When he met her stare, she felt short of breath. It was an unfamiliar look, though not altogether unwelcome.

“And now, I feel rather guilty for bringing the mood down…”

His hackles lifted, his eyes sharpened, and his left fist clenched. All minute changes, but dramatic nonetheless. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Oh! No, nothing frightening like that. The Ambassador just got these in, she wanted me to deliver yours.” Brigid offered the box, which he eyed suspiciously. “I hope you’re more pleased than I was.”

He lifted the lid with a gloved hand and whispered a curse. “Rather…militaristic, don’t you think?”

Brigid nodded, looking at the uniform once again. “I already had a chat with Josie about it. We’re meant to present a united front, I suppose.”

“All of us? The women too?”

“Can a woman not wear a military uniform, Commander?”

He presented a stoic habit like it was his religion, but he was easier to fluster than anyone she’d ever met. “Of course, Maker…I only meant—“

“I’m kidding, Cullen. I was as surprised as you. I thought surely an Orlesian ball would call for an extravagant gown. I was quite looking forward to seeing Cassandra in one. And myself in one, if you can keep a secret.”

He smirked in response to her own mischievous grin. “I would have liked that too. Cassandra, I mean, in a dress…doesn’t quite match.” His hand shot to the back of his neck and he looked like he was trying to rub the skin off. _Cassandra, of course_ … “Anyway…thank you for dropping it off. I’d like to stay and chat, but that Avvar clan looks to finally be arriving, and I’ve agreed to meet with them before Josephine scares them off.”

“Our sweet Ambassador scaring off warlording Avvars?”

Cullen met her inquiring look with a stern face. “Lady Montilyet is quite imposing. If our military forces ever fail, I vote we set _her_ loose on Corypheus.” He maintained his serious expression for only one moment longer than Brigid before they both broke into sniggers. The idea of Josephine facing off against the Elder One wasn’t funny—she would triumph without a doubt, or a sword, for that matter. But Maker, it was good to laugh with him.

“Well, I’ll let you be, then. Tell the Avvar I said hello.”

He nodded and smiled, rather widely, unabashedly, right into her heart. “I will. And you should come visit more often. Boosts everyone’s spirits.”

As she made her way back toward the keep, she saw very few eyes on her. No one seemed melancholy, but spirits didn’t look overly boosted either. It was no matter…hers were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Lion's Roar" (First Aid Kit): https://youtu.be/cl5FdvRR4pQ


	10. I Want to Hold Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And when I touch you, I feel happy inside...

Cullen was willing to admit that the food was occasionally alright. A little decadent, and often in smaller portions than he would prefer, but they made use of some fine flavors and he was a fiend for sweets. He could get on board with their music as well. He wasn’t one for dancing in any formal sense, but he had an ear for tunes and rhythms and the Orlesian sense for melody was admirable. Even the architecture was worth appreciating, though he thought it all impractical and excessive. It at least made sense. There was a logic behind its artistry, even if it wasn’t to his personal taste.

The headpieces, however, were—

“ _Ludicrous_ ,” a voice whispered from somewhere to his right. The Inquisitor, dressed in full regalia like the rest of their retinue, held her head aloft and her shoulders squared as their party entered the palace gates. But the sound had undoubtedly come from her.

“Pardon?” Cullen didn’t glance her way for fear of compromising the privacy of her hushed tone.

“The wigs,” she breathed. “The feathers. The masks. The… _Maker_ , does that woman have butterflies sewn onto her gown?” The dress was icy blue and embellished all around with large tufts of taffeta arranged to look like black roses. And on the center of each nestled a pair of pearlescent wings, fluttering, sputtering, as if too tired to care.

He grimaced. “Appears so.” She groaned a bit of disgust, but kept leading the party through the front garden entry. Everything and everyone was bathed in moonlight—white fountains, dark ivy, white clematis climbing columns and trellises. The guests seemed a garish stain upon the illusion of natural wonder. But there was nothing natural about the scene. The garden was crafted, arranged just so, and Cullen was acutely aware of its falseness.

“Decadent to the point of decay, don’t you agree?” Dorian sidled up to the Commander and joined in the hushed critique of the Winter Palace. “Tevinter likes dramatics and extravagance, but we also have a sense for what is tasteful. This is completely unchecked. I saw a woman with live insects stitched to her skirts as if they were little jewels.”

Just then, one of the many masked men stepped forward and offered his hand to the Inquisitor. He could feel the anxiety roll off her in waves. She had proven to everyone in Skyhold that her physical condition need not interfere with her competence on the battlefield. But Halamshiral was a different sort of battle, a different sort of field—though he grinned at the notion of her raining boulders down on their elaborate heads. The men of the Game, of course, were allowed to be gluttonous, gouty hams if they desired and had enough money, but the women—like all women of noble birth—were expected to be perfectly crafted products of generations of breeding. Bodies a series of golden ratios, vivacious, lithe, and waifish but with childbearing hips. Cullen need not be affirmed, he could see gowns that exaggerated small waists and heaving bosoms and his head started to spin at the deceit of it all. He looked back at Brigid and felt the weight of dozens of eyes upon her. He wanted to shield her from it, punch each one in their rouged faces…but she was better equipped for this place than he was, so he took one last look at the man regaling her and turned to Dorian.

“Gaspard de Chalons, I assume?” His head was shaved and his face was masked in tarnished gold, and Cullen decided he didn’t like the Duke. He ought to—he was proven in battle and rightful heir to the throne that Celene had cleverly taken. And yet, he was able to despise the man. In fact, it was no trouble.

“Oh, I don’t know these nobles any better than you. But it must be, she’s trying to be pleasant to him, bless the darling.”

“You’re able to tell when she’s actually being pleasant and when she’s forcing it?”

Dorian crossed his arms and clicked his tongue against his teeth in disappointment. “Of course, Commander. Our Inquisitor has a cheerfully round face when she smiles earnestly.” He imitated her full-faced smile until the corners of his own eyes crinkled.

Cullen looked closer and saw that her lips were only barely upturned. There was no mirth in her eyes. The mage was right, she wasn’t really smiling, but the Duke seemed none the wiser. No, she didn’t need his protection from these creatures. She would be as infuriatingly good at this Game as she was at everything else.

“Commander, a moment.” Leliana approached and held him by the shoulder.

No doubt, it was time for their planned security check. “Keep an eye on her. Both, if you can, until I get back.” With a farewell nod to Dorian, Cullen strode away. 

When they were away from the prying ears of the crowd, Leliana began her report. “My agents are stationed in each hall, on every floor, and in the exterior vicinity of each exit. Excluding restricted areas, of course, but that’s where Brigid is going to come in. As they gather useful information, I will collect.”

“How will I be able to tell who they are?”

“You won’t, Commander. That’s the point. If things turn sour, I’m sure you’ll be able to identify them. When all the peacocks of court are squealing, my agents will be wielding blades.”

“Fair enough. And they know not to make the first move? No matter what happens?”

“If their suspicions are raised, their primary order is to suppress, silence, and remove. They won’t strike until and unless physically provoked.”

Cullen nodded in approval. He liked working with Leliana. Their weapons were different, but their methods were similarly straightforward. She would not hesitate to kill, even in situations where he would spend too long deciding whether or not to spare. But that brought him comfort tonight. “I’ll make my rounds to the guards, make sure we’re on the same page.”

She nodded and vanished and Cullen spotted a pair of guards at either side of the front gate, closed now that all of the guests had arrived. He cleared his throat, clasped his hands behind his back, and approached the ornately dressed sentinels. This was well within his comfort zone.

“Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Commander Cullen Rutherford, with the Inquisition.” They each lifted an eyebrow at him, then looked at one another. Cullen squared his shoulders and tried again. “I’ve been asked to make the rounds and confer with her majesty’s security. Notify you of our presence.” Still nothing. He tried lowering his voice to affect more authority. “In the event of danger this evening—“

“Commander…Ruzzerford, you say?” The guard on the left finally addressed him in his lolling Orlesian accent. “We appreciate your…concern. But we are more zan capable of our duties.”

Cullen crossed his arms, opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it before nodding as a courtesy and walking away. He recognized a contest of superiority when he saw one and felt confident that, while he undoubtedly had the better hand, he wasn’t familiar enough with their game to ever convince them of that. He would protect the Inquisitor—that was all the duty he needed to know.

As he walked further toward the doors of the palace, he saw Brigid, still next to Gaspard. The Duke was regaling some stuffed peacock and the Inquisitor looked bored to tears. Just as he decided that his protective duties could perhaps include saving her from odious aristocrats, he heard a shuffle of feet on the terrace above him. For a moment, his entire body stiffened with alert. But then he noticed the giggle and cursed aloud.

“Sera…wherever you are, get down immediately.”

Before the last syllable has left his lungs, she had hopped down, planted her feet directly in front of his, and grinned—almost endearingly. “’Ello Noodlehead.”

“What are you doing here?” He regarded her usual motley breeches and casual vest and shoeless feet and instantly sensed trouble. And a general lack of permission…

“Quizzy asked me to come along. Take care of high-up things, what with her floatin’ about. Can’t climb like I can, yunno?”

“Why aren’t you in uniform like the rest of us?”

Her cheeks swelled with laughter and she threw her head back. “And look like that?” She pointed the tip of an arrow up and down his form. “No thanks. ‘Sides, I’m meant to be _stealthy_. And you’re all…” she put her forearm against her eyes as if the very sight of Cullen blinded her.

“Josephine allowed this?”

“Course not! Miss Priss’d have a fit. But Lady Daggers knows. Thought it was a ‘clever’ idea.”

“Well if it’s ‘clever’ you’re going for, perhaps you can be a bit quieter?”

“Such a silly Noodle. I wanted _you_ to hear me. If I didn’t, you’d be dead now.” She opened her eyes wide before cackling at herself again. “Anyway, don’t worry ‘bout _me_ ruinin’ things. These shite guards are the real problem. I got all the way to the roof easy as pie.”

He recalled the men at the front gate. “Yes, they certainly leave something to be desired. But I’m here, so don’t worry about the Inquisitor.”

“OooOoh.” She wiggled her hips and fingers out of rhythm with one another until he elbowed her to stop. “Can’t help me self. I know she gives you all them feelings in your man bits. S’alright, she gives me feelin’s too, what with them eyes of hers.” He frowned, tried to think of something innocuous to distract her. “Don’t worry, little Noodle. I ain’t her type. I hear she likes ‘em burly and grumpy and golden…” she began sauntering off to Maker only knows where, but turned her head back over her shoulder “…if you catch my meanin’.” He was loath to feed into her mischief, but even as he squinted his eyes in irritation, he couldn’t suppress a reluctant smile as he nodded his head for her to get on with her business. 

_Burly? Debatable…been burlier, but still nothing to turn your nose up at. Grumpy? That wasn’t the right word for it…just…thoughtful. Golden? Oh, when she was around, always golden._

* * *

 

The confrontation with Florianne had been…well, Brigid was lucky that she could just call it a confrontation. By all accounts, there should have been some sort of battle. Granted, her party had silenced more mercenaries than she could count in their attempts to get to the bottom of the death threats. Perhaps there wasn’t battle, but there was plenty of bloodshed.

But now she sat out on one of the balconies just off the grand ballroom, trying to gauge this Morrigan character. Leliana seemed familiar enough with her, which was plenty convincing enough. But the mage made a good case for herself.

“I know things,” she said simply. Not enough people knew things, Brigid was learning. They had plenty of swords and staffs…they could use knowledge.

“Seems I’ve not been given much of a choice in this matter, but even I were, I’d be grateful for your assistance. In this case, I speak on behalf of the Inquisition.”

Morrigan nodded, and not for the first time, Brigid was drawn to her yellow eyes. She no longer had the luxury of comfortable trust in every ally. But she’d rather have this mage with them, than against them.

“Very well, Lady Inquisitor. I will see you upon your return to Skyhold.” She stood from the bench and Brigid’s attention was drawn to the doors of the balcony, spread wide, as Cullen stood loitering to one side. Once Morrigan had finally exited, the Commander approached, taking the seat the mage had just vacated.

“What do you think of her, Commander?” He was all military in the night’s uniform, and perhaps the only one out of the lot that really looked at ease in it. It was nice to see him out of his armor.

He looked back toward the ballroom, despite the fact that Morrigan was nowhere to be seen. “I’ve heard stories…but it’s only fair to make my judgment after I’ve talked with her. Ask me in a week or two?”

Brigid laughed quietly. He was perhaps the first friendly voice she’d heard all night and it released something in her. She sighed heavily, letting go of the manners, facades, and false laughter that the evening had hoisted on her shoulders.

“This was exhausting.”

It was his turn to laugh, and he did so, with more effervescence than she knew he was capable of. “ _Maker_ , it was awful. Do you know how many people touched me? Not on the shoulder, mind you. Oh, and marriage proposals! I can’t recall saying ‘no’ so many consecutive times in my life.”

She had to stifle her laughter lest he think she was enjoying his misery. Yes, everything was lighter now that they could commiserate. Never mind the fact that she hadn’t spoken to him properly since she shaved his face and ran away. She clenched her jaw, thinking of the absurdity of it all. She thought briefly about bringing it up and apologizing, but if he were able to act so easily around her, she wouldn’t worry herself. Instead, she let the delicious silence wash over her as she watched the couples inside, spinning round one another. Those who remained on the floor this late into the festivities were there because the enjoyed dancing—there was an ease in their movements that Brigid tried not to envy. Envy could lead to tears. Months since the accident and she hadn’t let herself shed a tear over what she missed. Now would not be the time.

Suddenly, she remembered that Cullen sat near her in silence. She looked over, expecting to see him gazing likewise at the partygoers. But he wasn’t. He had been watching her with an expression she couldn’t place. She met his eyes and stared until the moment felt like a culmination of all the other moments between them—the healing tent, the road to Adamant, the battlements, the War Room. She ought to look away—social code said that it had been long enough and she should look away, but she had to study his face until she could see all of the other expressions she had seen in it. She tried to will her fingers to remember the feel of the coarse stubble on his jaw. She had stared at him before, dumbfounded by the breadth of his shoulders and the sway of his hips, these images that stirred something in her strong enough to do mystical things. But now he was looking back, not looking away, a hard, fast pulse beating along his neck.

“Can I tell you a secret, Lady Inquisitor?” Every syllable came out cool and controlled.

“Of course…”

He busied his hands plucking off small pills of wool from his jacket sleeve. “After Haven…when you were recovering. You asked me why I’d been waiting in your room rather than a healer.”

“I recall.”

“I told you that I’d been—that Blackwall, Cole and I had been taking turns…”

“And I happened to wake on your patrol.”

“Yes…yes, well—that wasn’t strictly true.”

Brigid tipped her head to the side, as if to tell him that he could continue.

His fingers stopped moving. He pressed his hands together between his knees and stared down at them, but she could still spot the smallest of smiles when he spoke. “I slept in that chair, in that corner…every night. Grew attached to the chair, actually. Put it behind the desk in my office.”

Was it an earth-shattering admission? It felt a bit like one, though she couldn't immediately reason why that might be. “Why?”

“I don’t know, it’s rather comfortable.” She pursed her lips at him in mock irritation and a delicious laugh rumbled through him. He returned his gaze to hers. “It was simple. I was worried about you. I wanted to be near you, I suppose, so I could feel like I had some control in keeping you safe.”

“Why tell me now? That was long ago.”

He seemed to consider an answer, but decided against it. Perhaps he didn't have an answer. “Nope, one secret is all you get. Unless you tell me one in return.”

“Are we playing a game, Commander?”

“Maybe you can tell me why you were staring so longingly into the ballroom.”

“Was it longingly?” She sighed, knowing that she couldn’t get out of the question and didn’t want to tell him a lie. “Truthfully? I miss it.”

“Dancing?”

“Not specifically. Just being that close to someone else. It's not like I ever danced regularly in my old life. It's just the lack of..." she groaned, struggling to put the desire into words. "Physical contact. I don’t know if people fear that I’ll break. Or that they’ll catch my weakness. Maker, who knows why people act so strangely? I just know that I don’t feel very human these days.”

“Hm…well that won’t do.”

“What won’t do?”

“Do you trust me, my lady?” He stood, brushing invisible wrinkles from his pants.

“I suppose I do.”

All at once, he was walking up to her, scooping her in his arms, and saying something. Her heart had leapt so hard against her ribcage that his words didn’t register until she heard a huff.

“You know, you shouldn’t make grunting sounds when you lift a lady.”

“You’re not heavy, but you _are_ a grown woman. I don’t hoist many grown women these days.” He placed her gingerly on the bench and sat directly beside her while she steadied herself.

Once she had gathered her wits and tamed her heart rate, she snapped her head toward him. “What in Thedas possessed you—“

“I’ll not have you longing for something you could easily have with just a bit of my assistance.” Their thighs were pressed firmly together but she only knew because she saw them. Her expression must have fallen. “Maker, you look mortified…should I not have—“

“No! Cullen, no, that was very…gallant. It’s only—I can’t seem to—I can’t feel you.” The last phrase tripped out of her mouth as if to drag tears with it, but she forced a deep breath instead. It was not the time to investigate why she didn’t even have the sensation of pressure against her thigh. There were more important things in the moment. He had tried to do something terribly kind for her. She could smell something earthy on him—a balm, perhaps. The wax he used in his hair? He was incredibly warm and she could feel the left side of her face heating from the proximity. He let out a quiet but deep sigh through his nose and she felt the fine hairs on the back of her hand move ever so slightly. It had been a sigh to prepare himself, she realized. He held his hand out above her lap, palm upward, and whispered “please.” Slowly, so as not to shake, she placed four fingers into his palm and wrapped her thumb around where she could feel the knuckle of his smallest finger. He squeezed gently and lowered their clasped hands onto her lap.

“You feel this, yes?"

She looked up at him through what she knew were dazed eyes and forgot his question immediately. “Maker, you have such long eyelashes.”

It was the last thing she expected to hear herself say, but he seemed amused. _Could laughter be gilded?_

He lifted his free hand to her cheek and had a realization of his own. “And you have quite a lot of freckles.” Perhaps he meant for her to laugh like he had, but instead, she turned her face and kissed his palm. A chaste kiss—small, soft lips against a calloused, well used hand, skin thick enough that he may not have even felt the gesture. But his chest swelled, his whole self seemed to lift toward that spot of connection. He moved his hand from her cheek to her jaw, rested his thumb and forefinger on either side of her ear. She leaned toward him but stopped with enough distance to let him make the decision. Their gaze stayed locked, but he hesitated long enough that she began to lose hope. Then he rushed forward, brushing his nose against hers. She could taste his breath, softer and warmer than she had expected. He pulled their clasped hands from her lap to his own chest.

“May I?”

A ludicrous question that she refused to answer. She lifted her chin to fit his top lip between her own and felt his fingers lace through her hair. Light, light, brushes of mouths, it had to be as golden and bright as the luster he gave off. He lifted his chin as well, sweeping his lips across her nose and then suddenly, blindingly, she was deliriously happy. Dizzy before a kiss had even been taken or given. She pressed her mouth full and hard against his until she felt his teeth beneath the soft. He opened his mouth first and sucked tenderly at the sharp divot in the center of her top lip. “I’ve always thought this was so lovely,” he breathed, kissing the spot again. The very notion of him admiring something specific and unremarkable about her turned her so soft and liquid that she pressed her free hand to his chest for support, for something firm and grounding as she slid her tongue against his. Something in him rumbled against her palm, a quiet whimper of delight perhaps, that never made it to the surface, and she felt faint, pulled away to make sure she could still breathe.

“Too much?” He asked, gathering his own breath.

Brigid ran her hand through his hair, soft and dense and warm, and she let out a sound she couldn't name. A chuckle, a sublime little cry. “No, not for tonight. Just enough for tonight,” she said, pulling his face closer to hers once more. He closed his eyes in anticipation and she pressed her lips to the lashes splayed across his cheek like gilt threads. He whispered her name, she whispered his, lips met lips, soft moans were swallowed as hungrily as they rose, tongues slid across teeth, hands mapped the topography of faces, necks, shoulders, and the dancers spunspunspunspun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I Want to Hold Your Hand" (TV Carpio, Beatles cover): https://youtu.be/exqLZPbpYYQ
> 
> One of those instances where the cover is even better than the original...
> 
> *Also, never intended for it to take 10 chapters before there was a kiss. Comments are always immensely appreciated!


	11. Wicked Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I never dreamed that I'd need somebody like you...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate angst, I'm so sorry there's angst, it needed a little angst. This chapter is a bit of a ride, so hang on.

Long after Varric had appeared and signaled the end of the remarkable evening with some cheeky comment or other, Cullen stood in the gardens of the Winter Palace, leaning back against a sturdy elm tree, fingering the coin in his pocket. He was certain, now, that the Maker had never created a lovelier creature than the woman he’d kissed that night. He stared at the moon and wondered, like a schoolboy, what she was doing at that very moment. Might she be thinking of the kiss as well? He knew he was grinning and even though no one else was nearby, he tried to stop himself. Alas, it seemed impossible. So he sank against the tree and succumbed to the airy, foreign feeling in his chest.

He hadn’t kissed many women in his life, but he knew that Brigid was something rare—if such a feeling were common, there would be no wars to fight, no business to attend to. The world would spend its every hour drowning in the sensation. “Maker,” he swore to himself, “her lips.” He touched the spot just beneath his eye where she’d placed a feather light kiss to his lashes. He’d never once thought of lips pressed there, never even thought of the space of skin itself, but now her kiss seemed forever imprinted on his flesh. Over and over again, he recalled the moment that he realized just how willing she was to pour herself into all of his cracks and fissures. He felt full—of delight, of her, of light—for what seemed like the first time in his adult life.

But once they returned to Skyhold, Cullen was unable to manage a private word with Brigid and it drove him absolutely mad. War Room meetings were a peculiar sort of torture wherein she seemed completely unfazed and he could hardly think past the ringing in his ears when he looked at her mouth and imagined it, warm and pliant against his jaw. He prided himself on self-control, but it had never been tested as stringently as when he recalled the taste of her sweet sighs or the glide of her tongue. Some days frustrated him so desperately that he’d fall into bed at night, stroke himself and whisper her name until he shook with release. Something had taught him that he ought to feel embarrassed or ashamed, but he did not call upon her image impulsively or vacantly. It was a sort of prayer, he had decided, filled with gratitude and hope and a vow of recompense for bringing him home. On those nights, he would settle his head against his pillow, a warm heaviness in his belly, and face his nightmares with renewed courage.

But the warmth fled from him three days before Wintersend when she led him out to the battlements one night and told him of Josie’s plan.

“He’s a merchant prince from Antiva,” she’d said coolly, as if he weren’t standing before her, choking on despair.

“You can’t be serious.” His head hung low as he shook it. “What about the Winter Palace? I felt you against me, Brigid, you cannot pretend it wasn’t—.”

She put her hand on his gauntlet and he nearly flinched. “No, it was…Maker, it was incredible. I would never disgrace it by suggesting anything less.”

“Then what? You can’t kiss a man like that, give yourself over like that, and expect him to believe there would be nothing else to it. I'm a bit dense, I'll admit it, but was I so naive as to think...”

“Cullen, it was everything, you must believe me—”

“But you’re going to allow the Inquisition to marry you off? For a political alliance?” 

She kept her eyes toward Haven that night. “That’s Josephine’s motivation."

“And yours?”

“Cullen, this is all…I should have _died_ at Haven.” She had spat the words out sharply. “I should have died at Adamant. I’m living on borrowed time as it is and I…I won’t make it out of this war alive. We’re afraid to say it, but we know it.”

_And oh, his heart shattered_. He thought the poets had always been dramatic, suggesting that something as soft and malleable as a heart could break. But how else could he describe the shards that stabbed him from within?

“Don’t you dare suggest something so ludicrous,” he stammered. “You’ve lived through all of this, against impossible odds, because—“

“Chance. It’s been nothing but chance, Cullen. It will switch sides eventually.”

“And if it doesn’t? And you’ve latched yourself to some stranger for the rest of your days?”

“Even if it doesn’t kill me in the end? Maker, Cullen, _look_ at me. You deserve someone that’s whole. Someone you don’t have to fret over for the rest of your life. Someone you don’t have to pick up any time you want to sit side-by-side. Let the Antivan bastard deal with me.” She finally turned to look at him and offered a sad, self-deprecating smile. He had no interest in her joke, but strode over to her and grabbed both of her hands.

“Don’t _ever_ let me hear you suggest that you are lacking.” He knew he had growled it out, too aggressively even, so he released her wrists. “Do you not realize the effect you’ve had on me? Do you not know that I’ve spent every minute since the moment you kissed me thinking of you? If there is something greater or more whole than the joy you’ve given me, it could only be a demon, Brigid—“ he tipped her chin up so that she could see the sincerity in his eyes, but he felt like she was looking through them, past them. “—Brigid, you are the pinnacle.”

He laid his heart out before her, vulnerable, suddenly fragile, and she seemed to go cold. “I’ve not yet agreed to the betrothal. But I did agree to meet with him. He’ll be at the Wintersend ball.”

A messenger had called to her then and she vanished into the dark. The whole conversation was little more than a shadow in his memory now, sometimes something he wasn't entirely sure had happened. But it kept him shivering at night. For the next two days he trained in the yard to the point of exhaustion. Nightmares still kept him from steady sleep, but the nausea from his withdrawal had all but disappeared. So he fed himself well and sparred with Cassandra until his whole body ached. He somehow reasoned with himself that the higher he forced his heart rate, the more quickly it would repair itself.

“You’re using all this activity as a distraction, you know?” Cassandra said to him one day, with the tip of a practice sword held to his neck.

“What of it? If she wants to sell herself off to this merchant prince, who am I to stop her?”

“A fool, Cullen Rutherford. You’re a fool,” she said, holding out her hand to pull him off the ground. “She won’t marry him. She’s trying to fall on her own sword for you. Tell her she’s being ridiculous.”

He smacked the dust from the back of his pants and sought out the water bucket. “I did! She went cold! You should have seen the emptiness in her eyes."

"It was a charade. Maker, I’d think you were familiar enough with idiotic self-sacrifice to recognize it in another person.”

He cupped his hands into the cool water and pressed it to his flushed face. Water dripped from his nose as he stared into the pail. “She has to know that she’s destroying me. If she doesn’t care about me enough to spare me from such pain, then perhaps she _should_ marry the Antivan.”

Cassandra, snatched the bucket away, lifted it, and dumped it over his head. “Fix it.”

He stood sputtering, knowing the nearby recruits were chuckling at his expense. He wiped one large hand over his eyes and flung the water at his friend. “Wasting resources, Seeker.”

“I have important business to attend to,” she said, gathering her weapon and shield, taking a couple of steps toward the tavern. “I can best you again tomorrow if you like.” She watched him try to shake the water out of his hair and he thought he caught an expression of pride cross her face. “You’re putting weight back on. Thank the Maker.”

* * *

 

Brigid rather regretted having agreed to this Wintersend event. When Josephine proposed it, what felt like ages ago, the idea of dressing up in an effort to impress her Commander was a delicious fantasy. Now it felt like a child’s attempt at playing pretend.

When Cullen kissed her at Halamshiral, a flood of hopes swallowed her without warning. A wedding. Children. Family holidays. Things she had never longed for. Things she had once detested on principle alone. Things she knew she wouldn’t live long enough to see. Things she suddenly wanted more than even the Inquisition’s success. She was terrified. And then Josie suggested a political marriage and it seemed like a tidy solution to her own fears. Those hoped-for things weren’t right for her, but Cullen deserved them, and if she were out of the way and unavailable to him, perhaps he’d move on. Spend all of that tenderness on someone without an expiration date. The mark on her hand felt like it was spreading as time passed. There was no pain, no heaviness. But it felt like it was sterilizing the life out of her. She felt colder, lately, and a bit hollow. The difference was miniscule, but it was a sign of things to come. She was sure of it. And so she would set free all of that warm, golden light and go to her grave on an eternal endeavor to remember the taste of him.

She had never mentally, emotionally disassociated in her life, but she recalled her father talking about the technique he sometimes employed when governing— _only to be used when you can’t bear to hear yourself doing the right thing_. If Cullen weren’t deterred by an arranged marriage, surely the frostiness with which she delivered her news had discouraged him.

Brigid would meet with the Antivan prince that very night. Vivienne had taken her measurements ages ago and, finally having use for them, sent them off to her seamstress in Val Royeaux with a demand for the most regal of gowns. In truth, it was a masterpiece. On some, it would have appeared a pale peach color, but against her skin, it seemed nude. She considered herself in the mirror: her bare shoulders, the netted sleeves that dripped clear jewels and lacework down her arms, the encrusted bodice that distracted from her flat chest and turned it into a magnificent canvas.

A dark laugh escaped through her nose when she realized she felt a bit like one of those corpses that are never better dressed than they are for their own funeral. She knew it was a bit dramatic to think of herself in mourning, but there was no joy in this extravagance.

Reluctantly, Brigid made her way to the Great Hall and approached the throne. She found that her own seat fit rather snugly into the cradle of the throne, so she settled herself and watched as Leliana and Josephine arrived. The bulk of the guests would come much later in the evening, so the hall was still sparse.

The Spymaster addressed her first. “You looks marvelous, Inquisitor. Madame de Fer did a splendid job procuring that gown.”

Josephine agreed. “Absolutely. You look far too good for this prince.”

“Is he a kind man, Lady Montilyet?”

The Ambassador hesitated. “Like all members of the Antivan ruling class, he is perfectly charming.” She cleared her throat, then continued. “But as he is approaching now, I will let you decide for yourself.”

The man’s complexion was barely a shade darker than Josephine’s, but his hair was black as night and slicked back, shiny. He carried himself proudly, confidently, and had clearly known social importance from birth, but it suited him. His smile was easy and warm, and his face smooth as porcelain. His age was a bit of a mystery, as he wore a faint ring of kohl around his eyes. He was not a handsome man—he was a beautiful man. Far too beautiful for Ferelden…and Orlais, for that matter.

His herald approached ahead of him. “Lady Inquisitor, may I introduce Prince Vincenzo Farnese, of Seleny.”

The prince held his hand out and bowed gracefully. “It is a pleasure to be meeting with you, your Worship. I was delighted when I heard of the efforts Lady Montilyet had gone to in order to arrange such a match.”

Complimenting her beloved Josephine was certainly a strong first move. “Yes, the Lady Ambassador has no equal when it comes to these matters. Tell me, ser, how are the Frostbacks treating you?”

He laughed rather forcibly. “They are not as warm as I am used to…but with winter at an end, I imagine they will temper.” He maintained a moment of silence before clearing his throat and stepping forward. “I’m sorry, Lady…?”

“Trevelyan. Of Ostwick.”

“Of course. Lady Trevelyan.” He fidgeted with his hands, apparently unsatisfied to keep them clasped. “I must ask…does this match not please you?”

_I am indifferent towards this match_ …“What gives you that idea?”

“You remain seated, is all. Perhaps there is a different custom in the Marches when meeting with a suitor.”

It seemed news of her condition had not yet reached north to Antiva. “Please, take no offense. I sit because, well…standing is no longer in my repertoire.” Brigid and her seat moved forward six inches and the Prince took a step back.

He immediately prickled. “Ah…I see. But you _are_ the Inquisitor?”

“I am.”

“And you… _inquire_ …while sitting.”

“I have no other option, so…yes.”

A rude, but quiet laugh burst from between his plump, spoiled lips. “My apologies, Lady Trevelyan. I was not warned that…I did not know I was being bartered in exchange for an invalid.”

Brigid could hear the gasps from her advisors on either side of her. Her blood pressure spiked as her stomach dropped and her ears rang deafeningly. She spoke just to break the sharp silence. “Excuse me?”

“Surely, you must—“

“Surely, I must nothing…Lady Montilyet, I am so sorry that this man has disgraced your country with his behavior and closed mind.” Brigid turned back to the prince with a saccharine smile. “I do believe this arrangement is through.”

Prince Vincenzo Farnese and his retinue of sniveling servants stormed out of the Great Hall as quickly as they had arrived, all billowing silks and temper, and Brigid rubbed her temples.

“Josephine.”

The Ambassador knelt at Brigid’s side, prepared to grovel. “Lady Inquisitor, I cannot apologize enough. His behavior was unacceptable, I am ashamed.”

She was not made at Josephine, but she was shaken. “Dear friend, please don't kneel before me...that was mortifying.”

“I had no idea he would be so blatantly rude. I knew him as a child, he was a sweet boy.”

“Yes, well, sweet boys can grow up to be atrocious men, it seems. I will be in my chambers for the evening. Please, no disturbances until the morning. And Josephine—“

“Yes?”

“I don’t blame you. But no more marriage arrangements, Antivan or otherwise.”

“Of course.” Brigid headed directly for the door to her quarters as Leliana drug Josephine toward her office by the elbow.

> _“Josie, you did not tell him of her condition?” The Spymaster was appalled._
> 
> _Lady Montilyet chuckled as quietly as she could. “You will think me cruel, but…I planned for all this.”_
> 
> _“You purposefully shamed the Inquisitor?”_
> 
> _“Our Inquisitor and our Commander are madly in love,” she stated, settling into her office and offering Leliana a chocolate from a small, ornate candy box. “But they are slow and inexperienced in matters of the heart. I made sure it was not an arrangement that would ever pan out. But Rutherford needed to feel what it was like to lose her. Now, he will hold her more tightly.”_
> 
> _“And what if he doesn’t? What if he’s wiped his hands clean of the matter?”_
> 
> _“If he would give up after one trial, then he does not love her. Not truly.”_
> 
> _“And you allowed her to be publicly humiliated?”_
> 
> _Josephine waved her hand dismissively. “Please, I kept an eye on those present. All useless Orlesians, I can guarantee it.”_
> 
> _“And the Prince? Will he not go back to Antiva and curse us.”_
> 
> _“If he does, my country will love us more than ever. Do you know why a handsome, wealthy man such as Prince Vincenzo is not yet married?”_
> 
> _“My agents don’t know him well enough.”_
> 
> _“He’s unmarried because he’s a pestilence. An awful man. No one likes him.”_
> 
> _“A risky gamble, Josie. You caused two of our colleagues—two of our friends—terrible heartache."_
> 
> _“And they will have love in the end. I’ll take the risk of them hating me temporarily if it has expedited their happiness.”_

* * *

Brigid wasn’t sure why there were no tears. A man had just rejected her solely on the basis of her physical inabilities. And he did so in public, in front of whichever Orlesian nobles had decided to loiter in the Great Hall that evening. Gossip and pity would spread and bring humiliation in their wake. She wandered up the staircases to her room, lit the small lantern she used for reading light, and faced the side of her bed. Perhaps she had disassociated too hard—detached herself too thoroughly from her emotions. But then she looked down at her lap, at the glittering dress draped across her legs. It was a skirt made for twirling, for trailing behind a set of nimble feet. It was made for someone to admire. She ought to take it off, change into her sleeping tunic. But then it would go to waste. And she had let so very much go to waste.

She pressed her hands hard into the seat beneath her, locked her elbows, and lifted herself to sit on the edge of the bed as she pushed her seat far out of the way. It would take too much dexterity and effort to lift her legs up as well in the mass of her skirts, so she flung her back flat against the quilt, lying crosswise on the mattress, shimmering in the lantern light. Finally, warm tears rolled from her eyes and she blessed the Maker for the return of an emotion, even if it were sorrow. It was a cleansing cry—no heaving sobs, no shaking. Just tears dripping from the corners of her lashes, sluicing toward her ears, catching cool in her hairline. Blood rushed to her forehead and her nose, but she welcomed the warmth and the familiar pressure.

She heard a knock on the door and mumbled to herself, sniffling. “Andraste preserve me, I said no disturbances.” And then she called out, hoping to disguise the nasality in her voice. “Who is it?”

“It’s…it’s Cullen.”

From so far away, it was little more than a muffled whisper. Her heart tripped over itself and she wanted to send him off, have a good cry in peace. But she remembered the dress she was wearing and thought perhaps someone who might appreciate it should see it before the evening was over. “Come in.” She groaned as she sat back up, anticipating the sinus headache that always accompanied a cry. She wiped her face half-heartedly. It would not be such a dreadful thing for Cullen to know she had cried. He was a gentle man, he would forgive her weakness. Might even spin it into a strength. She watched as a golden head appeared in her stairwell, followed by a pair of green woolen shoulders and the rest of her Commander. He paused a moment at the top step to look at her.

“Maker,” he whispered with a sad smile. “Finally in a gown.”

Tears sprung forth unbidden and she held her head in her hands. In a flash, he pulled over a chair and sat across from her.

“Come now, what is it?”

She’d never heard his voice so soothing. Her heart wrung the tears out a bit harder and she could do little besides shake her head. She had no sense of how long they sat like that, listening to her silent cries. Then, with a deep breath, she collected herself. “He called me an invalid. He spat the word like a curse.”

“Who?” Already his tone was protective. “The Antivan?”

His question glanced off of her train of thought. “Of course, I _am_ an invalid. But Maker, he turned it into a character judgment and…well, Josephine’s _certainly_ not getting her alliance now.”

Cullen sat up sternly and wrung his hands. She saw his scarred lip twitch and it took every ounce of control to not fall upon him and beg his forgiveness. “Not with Antiva, perhaps. But it seems she had a back up plan.”

Another quiet sniffle. “How so?”

“A second marriage proposal.”

“What?” She looked at him properly now and saw that he, too, had dressed for the evening’s celebration. Not red and sashed like in Orlais, but clad in browns and greens and tarnished brass buttons and buckles, a heroic Fereldan.

“A young lady from Nevarra. I just met with her.”

“Oh.” Had she spoken aloud? Any lingering warmth leaked from her body so rapidly she thought she might be sick. “Is she kind?”

He breathed deeply and plastered on a sympathetic smile. “She is.”

“Is she beautiful?” She didn’t want to know the answer.

He compromised. “She is…very pretty.”

“And do you like her?”

“I have no doubt I could grow to like her very much.”

Her breathing was shallow by now, her eyelids heavy. Her heart wasn’t shattering…no, it slower than that, more like a scarf unraveling. Or two halves of a peach being pried apart deliberately, but violently all the same. There was hardly a breath left in her chest. “Well…there you are.”

“All that remains is your permission.”

“Pardon?”

“As Inquisitor…you have a say in marriages that would affect Inquisition alliances.”

It was an even tidier arrangement than the previous one. She could free Cullen into the arms of the Nevarran beauty, do her duty as savior of the Maker damned world, and pray that he found peace. “Would you be happy with her?”

He looked up at her and his eyes were ringed in dark shadows, no longer golden. The whole of Thedas seemed to flicker and dim with the loss of their glow. “I…I don’t know.”

“Then I forbid it.” Her voice was small, but stern, and she held her breath. 

His own shock was evident in the way he sat up straighter, more apprehensively, but still laden with melancholy. “And what reason should I give for refusing her?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wicked Game" (James Vincent McMorrow--Chris Issak cover): https://youtu.be/uUaRPpnsfb4
> 
> Just wreck me with this song already.


	12. Hold You in My Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Place your hands on my face, close my eyes and say...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Note the rating change.  
> 2\. This chapter switches between their perspectives without warning or indication. I think it should be easy enough to follow, and if not, well, sometimes that's how getting frisky works...  
> 3\. I've never given a specific diagnosis for Brigid, partly because it didn't seem authentic to the story to pathologize her by doing so. Rest assured that the acts/events/reactions of this chapter are well within the realm of possibility.  
> 4\. I will never again produce a chapter 2 days after posting one. THIS IS AN ANOMALY.

The question was simple, but it hung heavy between them all the same, pregnant with the weight of a thousand possible futures for the two of them, whether spent separate or together.

Cullen watched her intently as she stared at her hands, folded in her lap. He watched her brows knit together and her chin quiver. She sucked in a large breath as she looked up toward him and he hoped that if she’d look up just an inch, his eyes could at least tell her that he was alright with the truth, whatever it may be.

“Tell her,” she began, not daring to look him in the eyes at first. But then she locked their gaze and spoke clearly, strongly. “Tell her that another woman has claimed you, and that she will love you better—“

There was more to the sentence, but he didn’t care. At the word “love,” he left his chair, thanked the Maker, and crashed upon her, knees pressed into the edge of the mattress. He held her face firmly in his hands until his fingertips met at the back of her head, tangled into her soft curls, and he drank from her. He was vaguely aware that his enthusiasm was slowly tipping her back, but it would be alright. She would be alright. He would hold her tightly, safe in his hands.

Once the sudden shock of his weight against her faded, Brigid pushed back into the kiss. She couldn’t find purchase on his shoulders or around his neck because his own arms were busy holding her, so she latched her hands into the crooks of his elbows and drank from him in return. It was a desperate, hungry kiss, its lovers deprived of its pleasures for too long.

His mouth was hot and firm, tasted something like coffee, perhaps tobacco or tealeaves, earthy and bitter and fragrant.

Her lips were cooler than his, less needy, but no less urgent. She tasted like citrus and something floral, maybe honey.

They broke apart for air, a spongy release of suction resounding joyfully in their ears. He kept his mouth against her top lip and she could feel his breath in her nose when he sighed. “I am committed to this, Brigid. _Maker_ , there is nothing else.”

It was her turn to rush into him, this time with her fingers dug into the nape of his flushed neck. “I will no longer deny myself…” she sucked hard at his plush lower lip “the pleasure…” he groaned and splayed his wide hands against her back when she tongued the corner of his mouth, “…of your affections.” He nipped the edge of his teeth against her tongue, perhaps mistakenly, but it awoke something. The deliberate pace of their kiss had built slow warmth and pressure in her stomach, but at the introduction of teeth, she felt a chill run through her and she couldn’t suppress a soft moan. His name, no longer a function of language, just a sound that signified her transcendence.

At this, he pulled away gently, and stood up. He had collapsed into her in an awkward, unsustainable position, and while he didn’t regret what it had given him, he had other ideas. She looked disappointed by his withdrawal and a proud heat unfurled in his chest. So he smirked, reached for hand to console her as he knelt down, his thighs and his abdomen pressed flush against the edge of the mattress between her knees, against her embellished skirts.

“Cullen, I’m so sorry—“

“Shh,” he hushed her, grazing his knuckles against her round, rosy cheek. “None of that, now.”

She closed her eyes at the sensation and the softness of his voice. “I was frightened. Demons and monsters to face, but I was never more afraid than when I realized how you cared for me. Afraid that I would hurt you, ruin you.”

“How I _care_ for you. Present tense.” They shared a gentle laugh and he moved his thumb to graze the meeting of her lips. “You’re no longer afraid?”

When she opened her mouth to speak, his thumb remained so that she spoke against the calloused flesh. “Not afraid. But trembling all the same.”

He saw that her eyes had dilated noticeably and the tops of her ears were pink. He watched her bare shoulders rise and fall gently, but rapidly enough. He’d thought her beautiful for longer than he was even consciously aware, but something about her bare shoulders—an expanse of her skin that he’d never seen—enflamed and intimidated him. “You look lovely tonight.”

“And you…very handsome. I especially like the collar.” He was surprised by her composure as she fingered the stiff felt lapel that ended near his jaw. Her finger brushed against his neck and the touch ignited his skin. He leaned forward once more. There must have been hundreds of ways that he planned to kiss this woman and he could hardly choose which method to try next. He wanted to hear her purr against him, so he ventured slowly, softly, as languidly as he could manage. He cradled the base of her skull, brushed his fingers along her graceful neck, down to her shoulders, then slipped his tongue between her lips as he pulled her close. She mewled and arched toward him, ever so slightly, and he knew how he would kiss her next.

He broke away, leaned back to look at her, and lifted an absurdly small foot free of an absurdly dainty slipper.

She leaned forward to inspect his absence, ready to scold him for having removed his mouth from hers. Then she saw his lips pressed to her ankle. “What in Thedas are you doing?”

“Kissing you.”

“You know I can’t feel anything you’re doing down there?”

“Hmm…then I should tell you what _I_ feel.”

She was skeptical, but the sight of him on his knees, mouth pressed firmly to the side of her calf, even without its matching sensation, endeared him to her.

“Soft flesh,” he described. “A smooth scar here, near your knee.”

“A childhood fall,” she explained. As his mouth climbed, he gathered her skirts in his free hand and pushed them out of his way. She leaned back on her elbows as she reflected on the gangly clumsiness of her youth, amused by the thought. “Cullen, I’d much rather have that mouth of yours somewhere it can be felt.”

He was leaned forward now, over the edge of the mattress, having worked up to her thigh, and his head was practically in her lap. “Tell me when you can feel me.”

The notion drew fresh tears to her eyes that she calmly blinked back. If there were miracles, perhaps his kisses would be enough to awaken her lost sensations, the lost faculties of her once graceful legs. Like something from a storybook. “Ridiculous man,” she teased, slipping her fingers through his hair, trying to comprehend the rush of feelings the night had pulled her through. “That’s not how it—“

She finished her sentence with a gasp. She felt him. His mouth opened wide and warm against her sex, small clothes dampening with his hot, humid breath and her own arousal. “ _Oh_ Cullen. I feel you.” His stubble caught in the lacework of the material and she reeled.

He looked up and she met his doting eyes, just visible above her bunched skirts. “May I?” The same question he had asked before kissing her. She wondered if his affections would always be preceded by such courtesies. She would put it on her list of things to love about him, but in the moment, she moved to lower her smalls and whispered “ _yes_.”

The first thing she felt was his nose pressed into her coarse curls. Then immediately, his tongue, pressed flat and wide along her slit. Her head lolled back with ease, but she was lucidly aware of the sensation. She would lose herself in his ministrations quickly enough—but here at the start, she longed to savor and preserve the feeling of his devastating mouth wrapped around the very core of her. His tongue slipped between her folds and she was surprised to find it cooler than her own heat. The satisfaction that rumbled in his throat suggested he was similarly surprised, and spurred on by it, seeking out the swollen bundle of nerves at her apex. He whispered a curse and then spoke up in a tantalizing rasp. “Oh darling, you’re so wet.” The pleasure hit her so sharply and clearly that she squealed without meaning to and bucked against him.

With some effort, she responded. “Can you taste what you do to me?” _Do you understand that my whole body, damaged as it is, weeps love for you?_ Her words elicited a groan from deep inside him, and the vibration of it against her sex forced a whimper from her throat. He pressed his middle finger against her entrance and as his mouth rocked into her, and her hips rocked along with it, she could feel the hesitant pressure of his fingertip.

“Maker, please Cullen, _do it_.”

He pushed his finger into her with as much care and composure as his overwhelming desire would allow. She was wet and warm, but that was the least of it. He could feel the supple muscle of her, he had the privilege of knowing her very center. He had the power to make her clench with the press of his knuckle, a flick of his tongue in the proper place. And suddenly his confidence swelled. He could feel her squirming in her gown, murmuring soft curses and affirmations. He would unravel her as tenderly as a lover could.

“Your praises I… _sing_ …” she cried out the last word and, though he was bewildered, he slipped a second finger into her and she moaned out the next. “ _Glaaadly_ do I accept the…the _gift_ invaluable of your glory.”

He lifted his face to look at her and her expression nearly broke him. Her brows lifted, her eyelids squeezed shut, her cheeks aflame. The realization hit him. “Was that the Chant of Light?” he asked, his fingers gliding in and out ever so subtly.

“Exaltations,” she sighed, throwing her head to the side. He could feel the friction between her wall and a callous on the side of his index finger, and when he moved slowly, she clearly felt it too, shuddering faintly. Soft, light touches and movements seemed to drive her to her end more effectively than anything else and he was delighted to have learned it. To have learned this intimate detail. To know how to bring her to utter incoherence.

“That,” he said, lowering his head back between her legs, “is blasphemy.” He hooked his fingers toward her navel and she arched violently before grabbing the hand that had been gripping her thigh. She flattened his fingers out and placed the heel of his palm to the top of her mound.

“Press.” It was hardly a whisper, but it raised the hair on his arms. He pressed, firmly, as he continued tonguing the slick flesh of her sex and she cried out, guttural and low.

“Maker, bless this man…” he hooked his fingers again the second time he pressed, “ _bless_ his hands…” she whimpered as he sucked at her clit, “bless his _fucking_ tongue.” He could feel the start of erratic spasms from within her and he pulled his face away to seek out her mouth. He wanted to see the first time that she quivered with his name on her lips.

Before he could even realize what he was saying, he found himself muttering words of encouragement by her ear. “Yes, darling…” a nip at her earlobe…“oh Brigid…” a wet kiss against her neck… “come for me…” one last hook of his fingers and he studied her expression… “let me see you come for me…”

She tensed, whined his name, and he felt the tighttightight clench of her around his fingers, the flex of her abdomen beneath his palm. He wondered how long she could hold herself like that: head tipped back, mouth held open wide, breath seemingly frozen in her throat. And then he heard the sweet song of her orgasm, half moan, half blessing, as her mouth loosened and her eyes fluttered. She rolled her hips forward repeatedly as if seeking him, so he tried pressing his palm against her mound once more to prolong the ecstasy he saw in her face, heard in her stuttering curses and blessings. She whimpered when he did so. Finally, she began to slow, to descend, and her breathing steadied. It was as if she puddled around him, sighing her gratitude, her joy, her satisfaction. Eventually, she sat up, pushed him up as well, and slung her arms around his shoulders. She kissed him briefly before burying her face in the crook of his neck, peppering whatever skin she could find with kisses, hoping her hot breath would signal to him that she still thrummed with desire.

She giggled like a giddy adolescent—a welcome departure from the tears of earlier. “Andraste preserve me Cullen Rutherford, where _did_ you learn such a skill?”

By now, his own arousal clouded his thinking and he was conscious of little else, save for the aching erection pressing against the laces of his trousers and the alluring wet sounds of her mouth echoing near his ear. He ran his fingers under her skirt and up to her ass. He wasn’t sure if it was an area she could still feel, but it was a delightful heaviness in his hands, and it made him just brazen enough to answer her.

“I learned it against your skin.”

She pulled her face away so that she could look him directly in the eyes. The light had returned to them, brighter than before, and Thedas glowed once again. “Commander, I think there may be a poet in you.” He matched her smirk as she tugged at the pale golden sash draped over his chest and pulled his face to hers.

And then words he had longed to hear. “ _I want you_.” Did more beautiful words exist? Had a more perfect mouth ever spoken them? There was desire in her voice, but not the blind, unintelligible kind that possessed lovers in a frenzy. There would be time for that later. In this moment, her longing was a confession, a benediction upon him, and he unclasped his sword belt to let it clang onto the floor.

“I almost hate to see such a uniform removed,” she teased. He stopped unfastening the buttons of the jacket and she laughed, sunny and boisterous. “I said _almost_.” And so he continued, trying his damnedest to not tangle himself in the sashes and ropes.

While she would have been happy to assist him, she watched uncomplainingly, captivated by the practiced coordination of his hands. He was eager, he hurried, but he maintained enough control to keep from looking clumsy. Once the jacket was removed, she recalled the last time she’d seen him in a thin undershirt.

“I must share a secret with you.” She felt her cheeks go ruddy at the way his right eyebrow lifted. “Months ago, I was practicing my new skill, out by the armory,” she began somewhat shyly. His fingers worked patiently at the laces of his tunic as he listened. “You had been sparring with some recruits. They gave you a workout, I suspect…you came jogging up to the armory all rosy cheeked and sweating.” She reached behind her back and began unfastening what buttons she could reach. “You brushed by me in a hurry and…oh, I _ogled_ you.” A bright laugh bubbled from within her at the admission. He smiled in return, and in one swift, fluid motion, he pulled the shirt over his head. Brigid heard the quiet moan in her own sigh. He had freckles on his shoulders from the sun and a bloom of blush across his collarbones. The dusting of curls on his chest and below his navel was only a shade darker than his hair, but it glinted in the lamplight. His hair was only slightly disarrayed as he stood on one leg, and then the other to remove his boots. When she spoke again, her voice was low, her breath a bit harsher as she watched his arms swing heavy and strapping when he walked forward. “You passed me and I watched you walk off…you looked…strong. Steady.” He had approached and was kissing her now, grinning against her mouth at her revelations. He reached his hands around her back and undid the remaining buttons of her dress. “Maker, Cullen…you’re so strong, so steady.” He peeled the back of her dress away from her flesh and a chill ran through her. “Let me be clear,” she whispered between his eager kisses, “my affection is not dependent on you being those things.” She needed him to know that he could be at ease with her, he need not carry the world on his shoulders, no matter how capable they may be. “But when I saw you like that…looked at you like that… _the bloody rocks lifted with ease_.” He growled softly and grabbed her around the waist, situating them both on the bed more comfortably. “And I knew I wanted you.”

When he pulled away, she drank in the sight of his bare torso. The lantern light licked shadows into the hollows of his shoulders where muscle and tendon and bone wove together. His was a body worth studying. She placed her hand on his chest and was startled by how solid it was. She knew he was all muscle, but when he breathed deep and his chest flexed, he felt hard as stone underneath the warm skin. She felt her cunt pulse and swell at the sensation and it nearly took her breath.

His voice rumbled in his chest when he next spoke. “I knew at Haven, when I let you go.” She slid her hand from his chest, up to his neck. “Well, I didn’t know what to call it…but that’s when I felt it. The dread of losing you.” She crashed upon him sweetly, aching to provide him comfort, praying she’d never cause him that dread again. She could feel his hard length prodding at her soft stomach and it sent a thrill through her. She would have him that night.

“In this very bed, I would think of you…I’ve touched myself with your name in my throat.”

His hips rocked into her and she reached for the laces of his pants.

“Shh, not yet.” He swayed gently into her, as he pulled the dress from her shoulders one inch at a time. Once the bodice was down to her waist, he sat back in admiration. “No breast band?”

She shook her head and moved to place her arms across her hardened nipples. “Small enough to not need one.”

He suspected some sort of insecurity, by the way she averted her eyes and covered herself. But he could not, for the life of him, determine why. “Oh, you are lovely.” And he fell upon her, kissing whatever soft, pale skin he found. Her forearms and her neck were tan from the sun, but the rest of her was creamy beneath a smattering of pink scars. One hand cupped a delicate breast and she sighed his name. _What a miracle that she sighed his name._ He looked up at her and she glowed back down at him.

“Marry me.”

The words left his mouth of their own volition. A muse of exhilaration had descended and took matters into its own hands. He was vaguely aware that a marriage proposal was inappropriate in the lead up to lovemaking, but once he had said it, he meant it wholeheartedly. She laced her fingers through the hair on the side of his head, presumably reaching for a grip on reality, and he felt dizzy with anticipation.

Her eyes were wide and he could see her pulse fluttering madly in her neck. “Marry you?”

“Maker, I—that was—no, I shouldn’t have. I mean, I want—“ finally, he stopped his fumbling attempts to explain himself and took a couple of deep breaths. “It’s as you said,” he found himself tracing lazy lines along her stomach, up her flank and realized he was seeking comfort. “We may not survive this. If I’m to leave this life, let me do so as your husband.”

Her smile crept up slowly, slow enough to make his heart hammer in his chest. But then she took his face in both of her gentle hands and nodded her head violently. “Yes, Cullen. Oh yes, of course.”

He had been set free. Fears, insecurities, doubts—they would all have their day again, such was life. But ‘yes’ had untethered him.

Brigid tugged what remained of her dress off of her hips and he helped remove it entirely. He rushed to unlace his trousers. By now, his cock was sore and hardened beyond all decency, and Maker, she had every right to be alarmed by it. But she took him tenderly in her hand and parted her lips in such a lovely way that he felt himself leak into her palm.

“What would you have done if I said no?” He pressed her knees apart and his cock twitched in her hand at the sight of how delectably swollen and slick she had become. They had aroused themselves long ago, he realized, and deferred their own ends with so much affectionate talk that neither of them would last very long.

“Loved you all the same.” No further teasing for now. He adored this woman. He would show her. He pressed into her tightness with a long, low, unabashed groan. Her entrance stretched to accommodate him and it felt like the kindest generosity. She wriggled beneath him to fit them together better, and spoke again, a question little more than a collection of gasps and whimpers. “And what will you— _ahh_ —what will you do… _there_ … _fu-uck_ , if-we-make-it?”

The grip of her walls loosened slightly and he hilted into her, full and heavy. Their moans mingled tentatively as they settled within and around one another.

“I will marry you,” he rumbled. She hummed.

He slid most of the way out before pressing in and up once more, one hand pressed deep into the mattress, the other clutching the underside of her ass. “I will make babies with you.” This time she swore and gripped the tensed biceps that held him above her. She had never seen his arms so exposed. She knew that they must be strong—they swung swords, carried bodies, lifted supplies. But they were _substantial_. Hard and striated.

He steadied into a slow, torturous pace, reveling in the way that she heaved and squirmed against him. Her walls squeezed around the length of his shaft and his vision blurred, so he closed his eyes. “I will…build a home for you…. _fuckyoufeelgood_.”

She called his name louder than before and he felt like a fucking hero—her sweet love the only thing worth fighting for. He kept his weight on his knees and sank on top of her as he reached for her arms, warm and silky. He stretched them over her head and held her wrists gently in the grip of one hand. He cupped her face with the other hand, brushed away the hair that hung in her eyes, clung to her damp brow, and pressed her hard into the mattress. When she sensed his face was close, her eyes flickered open.

“And I will love you well, woman, for the rest of my days.”

She came apart beneath him, from his thrusts, from his words, he couldn’t tell. Her sweet cunt smooth and contracting around him, he wanted her to _feel_ as vigorously as he did. He stroked his thumb along the slick seam where they connected and she arched nearly off the bed. He had lost the rhythm, he chased the building pressure blindly, and then she grabbed an ass cheek and whispered to him. “ _Fill me, love_.” He obeyed, poured himself into her with a snarl, and heaved out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. She hummed her approval some thousands of miles away from where he was and he tried desperately to hoist his weight off of her. He drifted back down to earth and realized that, at some point in the process, he had latched one of her knees over his arm, his hips were pressed flush against hers, and he had no desire to separate. But his arms were beginning to shake now that he was spent, so he gently unwrapped himself from her and rolled onto his side to keep from suffocating her. He couldn’t bear to break contact altogether, so he slipped one leg between hers while he steadied his breathing and tried to focus his vision.

She rested her head against the pillow only briefly before rising up onto her elbow to look at him. Her hair was matted in spots and stray strands stuck out wildly. Her eyes looked heavy, dewy, as if ready to well with tears. Instead, she smiled and tipped her head back, and he worried he might try to have her again.

“Maker, Cullen, I forgot where I was for a moment.”

His whole body was still thrumming blissfully. “I know the feeling.”

She leaned toward him and drug her fingernails lightly across the sparse hairs on his chest, damp with sweat. She could tell that he’d put on a bit of weight since Adamant, and apparently in all the right places—his shoulders seemed rounder, his thighs were thick and corded with muscle, the rigorous strength of his core was hidden by a layer of soft flesh so that only a few lines were left carved and shadowy. “Those things you said.”

He looked up suddenly from his reverie against his pillow. “I meant every word. Perhaps it wasn’t the most suitable time for such confessions...” he caressed her face with such care that an aftershock shivered through her. “‘I love you’ sounds too small, but I do. Love you.”

“It sounds perfect,” she cooed, rolling toward him so that her rose-tipped breasts pressed flush against him. He dipped his head down to sweep her mouth up in a kiss and wrapped his arms around her. Despite the unreserved sex they’d just indulged in, it was this proximity that made her blush, that made her breath quiver when she tried to catch it between kisses. The sharp scent of sweat cut through his heady musk and if she breathed in deeply enough, she could smell something sweet and earthy—cedar wood, from where he likely stored his clothes, and leather—still clinging to his skin.

They wouldn’t lie like this forever, _couldn’t_ lie like this forever, even though it seemed ludicrous to ever leave the bed. A tower full of guests were likely seeking their whereabouts as she pressed her mouth to his warm chest and tried to ignore the reviving heat coiling in her belly in response to his breathy, raspy laugh when her lips tickled him. Maker, that was a laugh she’d get to nestle into for the rest of her life.

“Brigid?”

“Hm?” She could fall asleep in a moment if she lost her wits.

“I really did mean all of it.”

“Likewise.” She lifted her head so that she could nudge her nose just beneath his ear and whisper. “Cullen Rutherford, _I’m going to marry you_.”

The evening was young. When Cullen had arrived in her quarters, dusk had only just begun settling and now, the moon hung low in a dusty violet sky. Eventually, they would collect themselves and dress once more. Eventually, they would replace their mantles as Inquisitor and Commander and seek out the many guests who craved attention. But he needed to make her quiver one more time—eventually could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hold You in My Arms" (Ray LaMontagne): https://youtu.be/mJN7xKPE01w
> 
> Brigid's gown (from Elie Saab's FW 17/18 collection):


	13. Stick With Me Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But I don't worry, honey, let them say what they may. C'mon and stick with me, baby, we'll find a way...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this chapter is a bit all over the place. We mostly just need to get from point A to point B, so to speak, and needed to address/tie up a few things. As a result, the pacing feels a little bit funny (to me, at least), BUT we get Brigid and Cullen being such a darn cute couple, even Vivienne has to approve.

The only reason Brigid and Cullen left her bed was the impending sleepiness that knocked at the backs of their eyelids. He wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around her and drift off to sleep with the rise-and-fall of her breathing. But responsibility nagged at them like a sharp smelling salt and the pair grumbled as they sat up and stretched. Still, he couldn’t deny himself the small indulgence of pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder.

She buried her nose in his hair and wiggled her fingers at the puddle of tulle and crystals that hung off the edge of the bed until he passed it to her.

“Do I look as drunk as you do?” she asked, pulling the dress under her legs and up toward its proper position.

“You look…satisfied,” he said, pressing a smirk to her forehead before standing up. “And I believe you’ve got that on backwards.”

She looked down and fingered the buttons mistakenly splayed across her chest. With a huff, she retraced her maneuvering and put the gown to rights. “I feel completely out of sorts.” She shook her head violently a few times and pried her eyes open as wide as possible as if it might sober her.

“Sorry about that.” He slipped his right leg through his pants first, followed by his left, and secured his belt around them. He could have sworn his chest was broader, his step a bit lighter.

“No, you’re _beaming_ about that,” she teased. “Besides…” still sitting on the bed, she crooked her finger at him and beckoned. “I’m not sorry.” She pulled him to her for a rich, slovenly kiss as she began fastening the buttons behind her and he was tempted to pin her back against the mattress once more. But he could restrain himself. Probably.

A rapid series of three knocks bounced off of Brigid’s door, followed by a small voice. “Lady Inquisitor?”

It was Sam, no mistaking it, so she called back that she was indisposed.

“Of course, your Worship. Josephine is looking for the Commander. Someone thought they had seen him near your quarters. Have you seen him?”

The lovers exchanged coy, almost bashful looks before Cullen opened his mouth. But Brigid waved him silent, pressed a finger to her lips in instruction. “Yes, we’ve just been having a chat. I’ll send him down,” she answered coolly.

Cullen shook his head as he buttoned his jacket. “I think Leliana has been influencing you. ‘Having a chat’…”

“Well I wasn’t going to tell him what you were really doing in here. Help me with these last buttons?” she requested, situating the delicate sleeves of her gown. He sauntered over, fully redressed himself, trying to smooth his hair.

“I don’t think you would be telling him anything he does not already know. You were…vocal…in your endorsement.” He fastened the last of her buttons and turned to leave the room before she managed a witty reply. “Give me ten minutes out there on my own before you exit.”

Sam had remained just outside the door and nearly jumped out of skin when Cullen opened it.

“Commander!”

“Sam. Josephine requested my presence?”

“Yes, ser.” Cullen passed the young man with a curt nod.

“Commander?”

“Yes?”

Sam pointed at his jacket and cleared his throat. “I think…it looks like you missed a button, ser.”

Cullen looked down to find that he had, indeed, skipped a button, so that the entire sequence was off kilter. Perhaps he _did_ look as drunk as Brigid. He quickly righted the situation and glared at the scout who appeared terrified. After a long moment of silence and scrutiny, Cullen placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Of course, ser. And…congratulations.”

Any other day of his life, Cullen would have gone nose-to-nose with the scout and threatened him with latrine duty for the rest of his life for such insolence. This evening, however, he squeezed Sam’s shoulder once more, nodded, and walked away.

* * *

The young Nevarran woman broke down in tears when Cullen called an end to their arrangement, and he felt like an absolute cur; that is, until she lavished his hand with kisses and gratitude. As coincidence would have it, her heart belonged to another as well. She nearly choked as she expressed her joy at the prospect of returning home to her lover’s arms.

In one night, four people had nearly found themselves in dreadfully unhappy marriages, and in the same night, all four had escaped such fate. Perhaps it was this clarity, paired with the Nevarran woman’s vulnerability that inspired Cullen to announce to everyone present at the Wintersend Ball that he and Brigid were engaged to be married. Of course, the two of them had already decided that they would only tell their inner circle, for the time being. But that was sometime during the haze of post-coital bliss, and now that he was thinking clearly, he wanted the whole Maker damned world to know. He was proud—immensely proud—of what had transpired that evening, but he still felt suspended in disbelief. How could such a woman agree to have him as a husband? He was atrocious at taking care of himself, he was nowhere near socially apt enough to make a decent dinner party host, he snored, he forgot to eat, he avoided confronting his problems by overworking himself, he was terrible at remembering name days, he was a lousy gift giver, he was a recovering lyrium addict…he was feeling worse about himself as the list rolled on. Then she appeared at his elbow and placed her hand on his arm.

“How did she take it?” Cullen was touched by the gentleness she offered the woman who had almost taken her place.

“Relieved.” He didn’t notice he was sweeping a lock of hair behind her shoulder until he had rested his hand against her bare skin. The ease of intimacy was quick to take. “She’s in love with someone back in Nevarra. She was eager to return.”

Her hand reached up to where his perched on her shoulder and she gripped his fingers. She gave them a gentle squeeze and gave him a gentler smile.

“Let’s tell everyone.” He had meant to say it calmly, confidently, but it blurted out of him with the impatience of a child on the morning of Satinalia.

Her gentle smile spread into a wide grin. “Should we start with Cassandra or Dorian?”

“No, I mean _everyone_. Let’s announce it.”

“I thought we had decided to only tell a few people. To spare ourselves the gossip and fuss.”

“We did…but I’ve had a change of heart. Of course, we can keep it close, if you like. But with the way you’re looking at me, the whole lot of Skyhold will know by morning.”

She swatted at his chest and gasped. “Are you accusing me of making bedroom eyes, Commander?”

He rubbed exaggerated soothing circles where her hand had made contact with his jacket. “You wound me, my dear. It’s not a lusty look…it’s a dopey grin…like a giddy Mabari. I’m only familiar with it because Varric accused me of the same expression on the way to Adamant.”

Without so much as a blink, Brigid willed her seat to rise up and meet his eye level. It still took him by surprise each time, but these little tricks made her all the more fascinating to him. “You were giving me enamored looks while we were headed to battle?”

“You were the fearless leader of the Inquisition, confident and inspiring. And I was in love with you.” He rubbed the back of his neck out of that silly habit he had when he felt self-conscious. “I probably looked at you with more reverie than anyone’s ever given the Maker.”

She stopped smiling then, gazed into his eyes, and pressed her palm flat to the woolen plane of his chest. He thought his heart might very well burst. He was so unfamiliar with this kind of unrestrained joy that his mind went blank. There was no muscle memory to remind him how to move. There had been no soldier’s training in how to love. There was only the mantra to focus all of your energy, move swiftly, and follow through. If he applied that lesson to the sheer force of his affection, he would have seized her face, crushed her in his embrace, and frightened the life out of her. Instead, he taught himself something new and moved in small, steady increments to lace his fingers in the willowy hairs at the nape of her neck. Slowly, _slowly_ , he cradled her head and pressed his mouth to hers. There was no rush to taste or tug at one another. The only thing he needed in that moment was to feel the gentle give of her soft-firm lips pressed to his. He felt the whisper of breath from her nose on his upper lip and opened his mouth just enough to seal it around her darling bottom lip. He froze like that, memorizing the shape of her flesh against his mouth, testing his own restraint and challenging hers. The hallway they had met one another in was so silent that he heard her fingernails dig crescents into the felt of his jacket. He was a moment away from scooping her up and carrying her off—to Josephine’s office, to the war room, to his own tower—when she ducked her chin and hummed. Her ears were crimson and her eyes were misty when she spoke. “Let’s tell everyone.”

* * *

The news went over rather well. Since most of the visiting nobles were Fereldan, the congratulations were modest: firm claps on the back, quick toasts, unsolicited marriage advice. One of the Orlesian nobles—a dashing fellow, taller than Cullen by a head and with a voice like rumbling velvet—invited them to join him and his wife in Val Royeaux for their honeymoon. Cullen made a valiant attempt to hide his grimace while Brigid played nicely. But when it became clear that the invitation involved some rather non-monogamous activities, they both sputtered out a litany of excuses to leave the conversation.

Josephine was delighted by the news, while Leliana looked more akin to relieved. The rest of the inner circle reacted as was anticipated: Dorian, Cassandra, and Varric congratulated them with heartfelt hugs and kind words, Blackwall shook Cullen’s hand, Bull asked if the Orlesian noble was still looking for fresh meat, Cole remarked on the warmth of everyone, Solas offered them blessings, and Sera asked if “the frisky business was as good as it had sounded.” Cullen blushed at that last bit, but Brigid assured her that it _had_ been. Vivienne saved her well wishes for a moment when the crowd had died back, and her sincerity startled them both.

“I’m just glad that Josephine’s plan worked out properly after all,” she said, placing a gentle hand on each of their shoulders.

“Wait, her plan? What plan?”

“Oh, you know, with the faux suitors and whatnot.” The mage’s smile was genuine until she realized her mistake. “Oh dear…you don’t know.”

“We know Josephine arranged marriages for each of us,” Cullen said, suspicion growing behind his eyes as he cross his arms.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think it was my place to say anything. But I suppose I ought to explain. Josephine, out of what I’m sure was the best of intentions, set up those betrothals to push you two along. I know we were all eager to see you happy with one another—”

“But she took matters into her own hands,” Brigid finished. She could nearly feel Cullen’s body temperature rise beside her and chanced a look at him. His mouth had gone stern and his brow, a bit tortured.

“Excuse me, ladies. Thank you for your well wishes, Madame de Fer.” And with that, he strode off across the Hall. In that moment, Brigid felt the true presence of their relationship. No doubt he was seeking out the Ambassador, and no doubt he would have words with her. Perhaps he would speak on behalf of both of them. It was a queer feeling—he had long spoken on behalf of the Inquisitor during negotiations and confrontations. But in front of Josephine would be Cullen, speaking on behalf of Brigid, his betrothed. It was a heavy sort of feeling, but she welcomed it.

“You know,” Vivienne began, startling her out of her reverie. “I’m still sure I could find you a passable suitor with a little more social cache, if this ever falls apart. You are a noblewoman with world experience and more than your share of political connections.”

It was a shockingly inappropriate, tone-deaf offer to make, but in Vivienne’s language—foreign though it was to Brigid—it was meant as a kindness. Still, she would defend her Lion. “I’m sure you mean well, Vivienne, but social cache be damned. That man,” she said, finding his flaxen head and nodding toward him, “is the most remarkable person I know. And if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to spend the rest of my days with him, however few they may be.”

“Good.” Madame de Fer’s smile was often wry and filled with attitude. She knew more and usually better than whomever she was speaking to, and it always manifested in her smile. But the one that spread across her face at Brigid’s words was warm and proud. “If nothing else, you can thank me for that uniform. The man is determined to wear all that crimson, but I think a deep, dark green suits him far better.”

* * *

 

Brigid sighed heavily. “It’s not that we’re angry with you, Josephine. Only that we’re disappointed.”

Then a mutter from the corner where Cullen stood in the War Room, trying to relax his face out of a scowl. “I’m a little angry.”

Brigid felt absolutely ridiculous. She didn't want to scold a grown woman, but she didn’t want to let the whole matter fade without some sort of discussion to ensure that such a ridiculous plan wouldn’t be laid again.

“You are entitled to your anger. I acted too hastily, I should have conferred with Leliana first, perhaps she would have talked me out of it.”

“You should never have had the idea in the first place!” Perhaps Cullen was a little more than a little angry.

“Josie, we’re colleagues. But we’re also friends. I admire you professionally because of your diplomatic acumen. I like you as a friend because of your sympathy and kindness. What you do as my Ambassador and what you do as my friend need never cross paths like that.”

“What possessed you to think this would be a good idea?” His voice was beginning to calm, but his forehead was still scored by lines of frustration.

“None of us know how much time is left these days. I was worried that the two of you would miss your opportunity to be happy together. You’re both fighters. I thought, perhaps, that if you had to fight for one another, you would find your happiness sooner.”

A long silence. They had found their happiness after all—or at least one source of it, in each other. Brigid only wished that the meddling had never happened. That she had never been coerced to break his heart. That he had never doubted himself.

“Just…no more meddling in _our_ affairs. Please,” Brigid finished, mustering as much softness into her voice as she could.

The Ambassador nodded, smoothed her skirts, and looked between the Inquisitor and the Commander. “Of course. If you will excuse me, I will rescind all of the documents related to this atrocious idea of mine. I only hope you can forgive me in time.” A rustle of silk, and she was gone, leaving Brigid and Cullen to themselves. Then something miraculous happened. She looked at him, the remnant of a scowl still shadowing his mouth and found herself smiling. As if it were a mirror, his face lightened and he smiled as well. Josephine's plot meant absolutely nothing.

“You think I went too easy on her?” Brigid asked as he approached the table she had her elbows propped upon.

“She manipulated us. I think there should be some repercussion. What if I had said yes to the Nevarran woman before talking to you? Or what if the Antivan prince had been just kind enough to snag you.”

“But it’s _Josephine_. What would you have had me do?” There was no anger in either of their voices by now. The questions were all little more than idle curiosity—a bit of connective tissue to get them from the drama of the evening’s festivities and reprimands to the moment when they could fall into one another once more.

He sat down beside her and shrugged. She knew that, were it solely up to him, he wouldn’t have done anything more to punish Josephine either. He was pouting, she realized, though in the most dignified way she’d ever seen anyone pout, and it amused her. This sort of idle moment had been her great fear when she thought of a romance with the dashing Commander—or with anyone, for that matter. In these sorts of moment, lovers swooned into one another’s arms. One walked up to the other with an enticing little sway of the hips. Hands wrapped around waists, chests pressed against one another, thighs hit thighs. These things happened when both parties were standing, when they met each other on the same level—these were small things that she would never do.

But he adapted so naturally that it made her heart ache. He came and sat beside her, put himself in a position that allowed her to be graceful and loving to him. She wasn’t even confident that he did it consciously.

“Can I ask you something silly?”

He looked at her in amusement. “Please do.”

“What made you think to come sit down by me?”

“What, just now? Is this some sort of a trick question?”

“No…” she nudged her shoulder into his and then rested her head on it. She felt individual hairs catching in the rough wool of his jacket. “I just wondered. Did you think to yourself ‘I ought to go sit over there,’ or did you wander over on impulse?”

“I suppose…I just wanted to be near you.” He took her hand and ran his thumb over her knuckles until each inch of her skin became jealous for his touch.

Perhaps this would all work. He would have to initiate their casual kisses and caresses, but it could work.

“If I…I may not always be able to approach you whenever I crave a kiss or an embrace…I can’t just _walk_ over and take you by surprise, I—“

“All you have to do is ask.” His tone was so soft and quiet that she felt compelled to lean in more closely.

“Yes, but there will be no spontaneity.”

“Perhaps. But then it will always be purposeful.”

“But will it ever make your heart race? Your breath catch?”

Her head rose with his shoulder as he took a deep breath. “To hear you ask a kiss from me? Maker, I can think of nothing more exhilarating.”

When she lifted her head to look at him, a few strands of her hair clung to his jacket as if to tether them to one another. “May I have a kiss?”

Oh, she would never tire of that smile. There was mischief and wonder and intent, as if he had a plan, an idea, a _gift_ and couldn’t wait to share it with her. The taste of his mouth brought their lovemaking to mind and blood rushed all through her, too excited to know which direction to head. She could ask anything of him in that moment, ask him to come back to her bed for the night, to wake up beside her in the morning, and he would respond with that same smile. She didn’t have to ask. They would leave the War Room separately, she would return to her room to divest of the evening’s gown for good, and he would finish up some paperwork in his office. Well after midnight, he would cross the battlements with purpose in his step and his coin in his pocket—the one he would tuck into her hand with a vow when he arrived in her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Stick With Me Baby" (Robert Plant & Alison Krauss): https://youtu.be/sOuczlD5KBw


	14. Kooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon you'll grow, so take a chance with a couple of kooks hung up on romancing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is/was a very indulgent chapter for me. The whole fic has been rather indulgent, but as my first venture into fic for the fandom, I think that's what it needed to be to get my toes wet. Still, I hope there have been a few notable morsels along the way. There likely won't be more that 2 or 3 more chapters, depending on how things get split up.

Cullen wasn’t sure why he had assumed that becoming engaged would put his mind at ease. He realized now what a ludicrous assumption that had been. As far as he was concerned, Brigid and he were married. A chantry upbringing had instilled the importance of a wedding ceremony deep in his soul, and he was certainly prepared to pledge his life to her in the presence of the Maker. But Brigid had access to something closer to his core than religion or ritual—he knew this, even if it frightened him, even though he had no language for it. They had whispered their vows to one another in the dark of her bedchamber between love-laden sighs—the rest was formality. And so every time she left the safety of Skyhold, he felt a small trauma. No doubt she could take care of herself—the reports of her travels detailed her lifting rocks and shaking the ground beneath her enemies’ feet. The image had begun to amuse him. He had seen her, _felt_ her, delicate and lithe beneath him, so it seemed impossible that such elemental power could come from her. But then he recalled the cadence of her voice and _true_ , it sometimes sounded like a breeze on the boundary of a wood. She tasted of honey and when he lost himself in the flavor, he thought he could distinguish the flower from which such nectar came. She was of nature, rich and rustic and lush. It was no wonder that it trembled before its creation.

Maker, he had _had_ her—by some grace, she had offered him her heart, and it still baffled him. He wanted a hundred years to spend making himself worthy of such a gift, a hundred years to spend making her happy; such a simple goal in life, now, but epiphanies were often simple. And yet, he was forced to send her off into every variety of danger. In the nearly two months since their betrothal and the Wintersend ball, the weather had turned more temperate and much rainier. With a melancholy to match it, his sleeping habits had become even more erratic and his days were edged with worry. Every flap of wings could be a raven with news; every shout, a heralding of her return. His temper was short. His head was filled with the pressure of worst-case scenarios. His hands never stopped moving. He’d managed to drive through an impressive amount of paperwork and he’d given his men more trying workouts than he himself could complete. And yet nothing slaked his anxiety. It demanded every moment of his attention. When he heard a muffled knock against his office door late at night, he nearly tore through his own skin.

“You got a minute, Curly?”

_Curly_. It was Varric, then. Acceptable company. Welcomed company, he admitted, once he realized he’d had little human contact on that particular day. So he opened the door to his friend who balanced a plate of food on one palm and clutched a pair of mugs in the other hand.

“How did you knock—“

“Boot. You take me for an amateur? You do remember I lived in tavern back in Kirkwall, right?”

The memory forced a soft laugh from Cullen, little more than a sharp breath through his nose, as he moved away from the door to let Varric in. “It’s good to have someone from those days around. Keeps me in check, should I ever feel too confident about myself.”

“Well I aim to serve. Speaking of,” Varric continued, shifting the papers on Cullen’s desk with the base of the mugs he carried, “you need some food and I need to clear something up with you.”

Cullen noted an unsettling tone in Varric’s voice—not wholly accusatory, but something with a lot of force behind it. As a sign of trust, like some old salt and bread ritual, Cullen took a small wedge of cheese to his lips and nodded.

“How much does Heartstrings know about…how can I put this delicately?” he muttered to himself.

“Just out with, Varric, there is no need for spared feelings between us.”

This seemed to settle the dwarf who, until then, stood with his arms tense at his sides. “Does she know about Kirkwall?”

The question rankled him despite his reasoning that it was more than fair. The reflexive irritation must have shown on his face.

“All I’m asking is, does she know the back story? I just…I know you want to leave that life behind. And if I were in your position, part of leaving it behind would be not talking about it. So I’m giving advice that I wouldn’t be able to take myself—tell me she knows everything.”

He was equal parts offended and touched. It was disappointing that Varric would think him so unwise as to propose marriage to a woman while hiding so much of himself. But it warmed him to see that his friend—his usually wise-cracking and light-hearted friend—cared enough about his relationship with Brigid that he was willing to speak of such dark days.

He snatched a heel of bread and leaned against his desk. “Of course I told her. First, about the lyrium withdrawals, and then about my reasons for leaving the Order.”

“How’d the conversation go?” The tenor of the question was more concerned than gossipy, so Cullen was willing to divulge.

“She was…regal, about it. _Andraste preserve me_ , like she always is. She clutched my hand and said comforting things and said she understood my guilt, my need to atone, and said she would not hold it in judgment against my character. This was all long before we even kissed. Maker, I don’t deserve her.”

Varric nodded into his mug which Cullen now discovered was full of a rather piss poor ale. Varric could tolerate anything, bless the man. “Yeah, you probably don’t. And Thedas definitely doesn’t. But y’know, I don’t care much for the word ‘deserve.’” He paused a moment before staring up at the ceiling. “You earn things. You gotta work for it. And it’s better than deserving, anyway. You can earn anything with enough effort. Spend your life earning her, if that’s what it takes. But it shouldn’t take much. Andraste’s tits, she looks at you like you hung the sun in the sky.”

Cullen felt as if his lungs would take in so much air they might burst. He’d seen her loving looks, but to hear from someone else that she radiated like that, for _him_ …it made no bloody sense, but he could live off the warmth of that feeling for the rest of his life.

“I’m gonna level with you Curly—yours was a story that broke my heart. There’s a lot of tragedy in a man who realizes the right thing too late. After everything with Meredith…the kind of villain every writer hopes to craft but prays to never meet...it just killed me to see. But the guts it takes to admit your guilt and start rebuilding from the ground up? A lot of other people would say it was too late—they’d been raised in so much hatred that they were ruined for good, no use in making reparations. But not you. I’ve watched you claw your way back to decency. More than decency.”

“Varric, I—“

“I know, I know. It’s a lifelong process. Believe me, I’m a writer, I can say with certainty that endings don’t really exist. You just keep working at it. But the work can get easier. I see it getting easier for you. And now you’ve got this amazing woman…” A grin spread across his face as he trailed off.

He did. And she was amazing. And she was gone, hunting down danger. “I’m terrified.”

“You should be! She’s a spitfire—“

“No, I mean…what if I lose her, Varric? Maker, I can’t—“ It was the first time he spoke the fear aloud. When Brigid broached the subject, he had quieted her, diverted her away from talk of an outcome he couldn’t bear to imagine. “So much evil in the world right now, and us trying to rid ourselves of it. What if it demands the sacrifice of just as much good? Maker guide me…there will come a day when I have to send her to face Corypheus. And then—“

“ _And then she comes back to you_. She saves your world. You give her the rest of your life and you make her happy. Cullen, if you think for one second that we won’t give our lives to keep that woman alive, then you’re underestimating the ragtag support system you got around here.”

Cullen thought he might weep. Or perhaps lurch into Varric for a rather awkward hug. “I don’t remember the last time you called me Cullen.”

“When was the last time I was this serious about something?”

“It’s more difficult now, watching her leave Skyhold. Waiting for her return.”

“It’s gonna be even worse if you pass out because you’re not taking care of yourself. C’mon Curly, eat, get some sleep, and for Maker’s sake, shave that face of yours. You can’t call it rugged anymore.”

It did rather itch, he realized. “I’ll see what I can manage. Thank you, friend, for the advice."

“Somebody’s gotta look after you while Heartstrings is away.”

* * *

Per Varric’s recommendation, Cullen had convinced his mind to give him at least five solid hours of sleep; nowhere near as much as he managed when Brigid was home, but still more than he’d had in nearly a week. He probably could’ve continued for another hour or so if it hadn’t been for the frantic knock on his door. Groaning as he lifted his heavy, aching body from the mattress, he stood and rubbed at his eyes. The ladder wasn’t much trouble when he was wide awake, but with the Fade still clinging to him, it seemed like the most ridiculous obstacle ever contrived in all of Skyhold. He stubbed his toe hard against one of the rungs when he misjudged his footing and cursed as he finished his descent. Bare feet smoothed against the creaking floorboards as he lumbered to the door and opened it with one eye still shut.

“What?”

A wan faced scout frowned up at him. “The Inquisitor has returned, ser. She’s been injured.”

Did his heart plummet then, or squeeze like a fist? Blood rushed out of his head, at any rate, and he went a bit blind, either from dread or the early morning light that glared in his widened eyes. An old pair of boots sat just near the door so he shoved his feet into them, grabbed his sword—something, anything to fight against whatever had dared touch her—and slipped past the scout.

His steps were purposeful, hard against the stone of the battlements as he tried to calm his mind. The chill in the air bit through his thin shirt to dry the night sweat on his back and chest. The men on guard duty could hardly raise their hand in salute before he had breezed past them and they surely looked at him with raised eyebrows—rarely did the Commander traipse through Skyhold without his armor and mantle. Without pause, he rushed through Solas’ room.

“She’s in her bedchambers,” the elf informed in an unsettlingly even tone.

It’s where Cullen was headed anyway, but it relieved him all the same. If she were fighting for her life, she would still be in one of the healers’ tents. In her own quarters, she was likely just recovering. Just recovering. Maker, how many times would he have to see her fend off death? He stopped just shy of her door to consider this and felt weakened by the question. And then a thought occurred to him, which sounded rather like Varric’s voice: better to watch her fend off death than succumb to it. So he took a deep breath. And then a second one, for good measure. And then he opened the door.

It felt like the longest trek he’d ever taken up her many stairs. He was nervous, Maker, why was he nervous? His imagination devised all sorts of horrendous injuries—a mauling, stab wounds, a hit to the head, burns, _Andraste preserve him_ , red lyrium exposure. But when he reached the top of the stairs, he saw her leaning back on a mass of pillows with serenity pooled across her sleeping face. His knees came so close to buckling in relief that he palmed the bannister just to be safe. He was glad, then, to not be wearing his armor. Without all the clanking, he was able to approach and not startle her. Still, he took tentative steps and set his sword against the wall with all of the delicacy he could muster. It was his whispered prayer of thanks to the Maker that finally stirred her.

“Cullen,” she hummed fondly. “You look like something out of a dream.”

It seemed a ridiculous thing for her to say—he was an absolute mess, still half asleep and hungover from adrenaline. When he laughed, all of his remaining worry gusted from his lungs in a soft thunder. “Poor thing, still delusional from trauma.” That managed to tease a laugh from her in return and he found his own strength recovering.

Brigid pushed herself upright and winced, but regained her composure quickly and patted the bed next to her. “I’m lucid as could be, Commander. And I know a billowy-shirted romantic hero when I see one. Now,” she continued as he let his weight sink into the mattress, “let me kiss my fine hero.”

She was the hero, he the beloved that stayed home and fretted over her return. But it was no time to argue, she had asked him for a kiss. And he obliged. Maker, did he ever oblige. She tasted of something astringent and medicinal at first—something wholly unlike her—but then she tangled her delicate fingers into the loose fabric of his shirt and tugged and suddenly tasted like herself again. She had been gone for nine days this time and he had ached for her all the while. He was unraveling quickly, yet there were other things to attend to, so he pulled away.

“Brigid, what happened? The scout said you were hurt.”

Her shoulders slumped when she huffed and he pushed back the loose curls that swung in her face. “Bloody demon got its claws in me. Across half of my chest.” She pulled the collar of her tunic down to display a relatively fresh bandage wrapped tight against her chest and right shoulder. Already, little blossoms of crimson were bleeding through in two parallel stripes.

“Maker, why wasn’t this healed with magic? You’re still bleeding.”

“It _was_ healed with magic. It was…well it was very bad. This is an improvement, believe me,” she added, shifting over in the bed so that he could sit more comfortably. The strain it put on her shoulder made her groan despite her will.

“Stop!” he said, reaching out for her. “Stop moving, woman, you’ll make it worse. Here, lay back and rest.”

She grumbled again. It was unlike her to be so restless, perhaps the injury had really unsettled her. “But it’s been over a week since I left. I’ve missed you, I want—“

“I’ll stay here with you,” he assured her. “But you need to rest.” He slipped his legs under the blankets and pulled her carefully into his arms, doing his best to avoid disturbing her injury. He felt her body relax into him, mercifully. “Comfortable?”

She nodded and sighed against his neck. He had rarely found the opportunity to simply hold her in his arms. He knew himself to be a strong man, a broad man—it was a security, a necessity in his line of work, and now a blessing because it meant he could wrap himself around her entirety. She was tough as tree bark, and she didn’t need his strength or protection. But he would hold her all the same. She had rested her head on his shoulder and he relished the springy feel of her hair against his shirt. Her tunic had rucked up a bit in all her moving and something about the sight of her midriff called out to him. He pressed his palm to the soft swell of her stomach, ran his hand across it, and felt her tremble beneath him. He wanted her to rest, he wanted her to recuperate, and then, before she was taken from him once more, he wanted to _adore_ her—

“Cullen…”

He pulled his hand back hastily, afraid he had hurt her.

“Cullen, there’s something else…”

His whole body froze at her murmuring against his chest. “Another injury?”

“When the healer was attending me, she had some other routine questions and inspections.”

He thought she would continue, but when she stayed silent, he rubbed at her uninjured shoulder. “Was everything alright?”

She tucked her nose just beneath his ear and he heard a soft groan just before her whisper. “I’m with child.”

Cullen placed his hand back on her belly as if doing so might confirm it. “ _Truly_?”

“About seven weeks along, if her magic read things correctly. It’s why she didn’t want to use anything more aggressive to heal the gashes.”

Should anyone ask Cullen how he felt in that moment, he could only offer them a litany of emotions: surprise, trepidation, terror, adoration, guilt, _overwhelming joy_. He wanted to indulge in the last on the list but it was too much—it was all too much for him to have as his own.

“Please say something. Anything.”

He looked down to see her eyes turned up toward him, full of anticipation. “I—Maker, I—how could I deserve such happiness? There is so much blood on my hands. Resentment and anger and this world is a disaster…oh Brigid, babies are so _soft_. What if I—Andraste preserve me, what if I hurt it? What if it’s ashamed of me?”

She forced herself upright and off of his chest, and the absence of her weight made him feel like he might crumble to dust.

“Cullen, my love, my dear, dear man. What in Thedas has you so fearful?”

“I’ve done so many awful things. Made so many terrible decisions. And coming off the lyrium—Maker knows it’s going better than I anticipated, but that’s right now. What if it gets bad again? What if my temper gets worse? What if I send you off to Corypheus and—“

Brigid grabbed either side of his face with her hands and smoothed her thumbs along his cheekbones. “Cullen, listen to me.”

With such cowardly thoughts rampaging through his mind, he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes until she demanded it of him.

“Look at me, my love. You have known struggles beyond comprehension, and so you have good reason to think of these things. But you are a good and decent man now, whatever happened before. Tell me: will you love this child?”

_Of course. Of course_. Looking so closely into her eyes, he could see the layers of green and grey fiber that knitted together and it captivated him. Her cool hands pressed against his heated cheeks and all he could think of was loving her and loving their child. “With everything in me.”

“And will you try to do right by it?” The pad of her left thumb stroked back and forth just beneath his eye and he couldn’t stop himself from reaching up to clutch his hand around hers.

“Of course.”

She leaned down and kissed him then, a chaste press of the lips meant to calm and comfort. “Then we will face the rest together.” When he opened his eyes, he saw then that her face had turned gentle, but that the corners of her mouth were downturned.

“But something troubles you?” he asked.

It was her turn to fall back against the pillows. “It’s silly…your worries make sense…and Maker knows I’m terrified in my own way too. I had just…” she averted her eyes before she could continue. “I’d hoped you’d be happy to hear the news.”

“Maker curse me for the fool that I am…here you’ve just said the most amazing thing in all of Thedas and all I’ve done is panic.” He took her chin in his thumb and forefinger and guided her face back to his. “I can’t think of a happier moment in all my life. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine you even casting me a second glance…now you’re giving us a child. And what a lucky child it will be.”

Her nose crinkled in confusion. “Lucky? What do you mean?”

“To have a mother as strong and as sharp and as beautiful as you? I’d call that good fortune.”

He was relieved to have earned a chuckle from her, though he didn’t mean it to be funny; he’d meant it quite earnestly. “And will you still find me so beautiful with a swollen belly and a grumpy humor?”

The image stirred a primitive, protective something in him and yes, _yes_ he would find her irresistible. He leaned down to press a kiss into her neck, as dangerous as it may have been. “I can think of nothing more alluring than the woman I love carrying my child within her.” The words whispered against the soft hair that gathered in the crook of her neck elicited something of whimper from deep in her chest.

“Cullen, I know I’m recovering from an injury, and everything’s in a whirlwind right now, but I need you to fuck me.”

He pulled back, simultaneously scandalized and aroused by the breathy haste in her voice. “Now? Is that safe for the baby?”

“Does the Chantry teach you nothing?”

“Not about babies, no.”

“It will be fine. Love, my body is practically humming. I knew something was going on even before the healer confirmed it. My tits ache, I feel as if I’m always wet—“

Her candor made him blush a bit more than an expectant father ought to, but the thought of her already wet had him hard in an instant—

“I thought at first that I just missed you terribly. And I did. I thought of you every night while I was away, called your image to mind as I tried everything for a bit of relief. But now that I have you here before me, warm and heavy, with your beautiful broad shoulders and whispering such delicious things…”

He couldn’t suppress a soft laugh at her expense. She was starting to writhe gently, her hand seemed to be reaching for her smalls of its own volition—it was unlike her, but it was an exquisite sight. He vaguely remembered from his mother’s pregnancies that there would be less exquisite parts of this: morning sickness, bouts of crying, an aching back. He would get her through those things when the time came. But right now, she was practically keening with desire, begging for relief, and he would get her through this too.

It took two hours and five orgasms before she finally fell asleep. Despite the work that needed to be done and the perils ahead of them, he followed into the Fade soon after, one hand on her soft stomach, and tried not to let himself hope too hard for a little girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Kooks" (David Bowie): https://youtu.be/EsSlOGzPM90


	15. Calico Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was written that I would love you, from the moment I opened my eyes.  
> And the morning when I first saw you gave me life under calico skies.

> _Dearest brother,_
> 
> _Let me begin by assuring you that I am safe. Bruised, battered, and unfathomably exhausted, but otherwise safe. I’m sure you would have preferred to hear that news months ago. Years ago? Maker, has it been that long since I left Ostwick? I suspect you’ve heard all sorts of rumors. I won’t even try to imagine them all, so I’ll tell you the truth of things._
> 
> _Soon after the explosion at the Conclave, I was christened a sort of divinely chosen herald—pure nonsense, but I met the challenge to lead an army against utter evil all the same. I aligned with Templars, Grey Wardens, a rather remarkable group of mercenaries known as the Chargers. Both the right and left hands of the Divine! The Master Tethras of literary fame. The son of a Tevinter Magister. All sorts, brother, you would have been fascinated by the personalities. We welcomed mages, soldiers, and refugees from all walks and, despite the chaos of it all, we faced down Corypheus and defeated him. Have you heard of Corypheus in Ostwick? Seen rifts in the veil? Surely so…Maker, I can’t even gauge how much the civilian population knows anymore. It’s all so second nature to me._
> 
> _There was an accident some time ago. Well, less of an accident and more of a blatant attack on our forces that I took the brunt of. It’s a bit strange to write it out like this, but I’ve not been able to walk since then. Sheared or snapped something in my back, apparently. I had to re-adapt every bit of my life. I use this enchanted seat contraption to get around, which works well enough. I’m likely to lose my left hand at this rate as well, but that’s a long story that’s harder to explain on paper. I’m sure mother will be thrilled to hear that her already headstrong daughter is now an invalid. Such a blessing to the family!_
> 
> _On a happier note, I found love. Shocking as it may sound, it seems I won’t die an old maid like I always swore. His name is Cullen and we’ve already married. Those sorts of things seem more time sensitive when death knocks at your door each day, so we decided to take care of it right away and keep things simple. He’s the Commander of our military forces—of humble Fereldan origin. He’s tall and bull-headed at times, but gentle and rather shy. He’s got the most striking eyes, Cillian, like little pools of sunlight. I think you’d get on well with him; don’t let the upper body strength fool you, he’s really very cerebral. Might even give you a run for your money on the chessboard. And he has no ambitions toward nobility, so I’m sorry to say you’re still stuck with inheriting the family title._
> 
> _Would you care for one more shocking bit of information? You’re to become an uncle any day now! Apparently your sister is supernaturally fertile—I managed to get pregnant before the marriage even happened and despite all careful precautions. I suppose the Maker insisted on more Trevelyans running around. To be honest, I’m terrified. I’ve been terrified from the very start, knowing that I led a dangerous life. What with being the Maker’s chosen or some such nonsense, only I could face down Corypheus. I knew this from the start, but I never thought I’d be doing so with a six-month-old babe kicking around in my womb. But we survived it. We all survived it, thank the Maker. I only hope that the little one is healthy and that it wasn’t harmed in all of the peril. I know Cullen hopes for a girl but is too afraid to put words to it, lest he jinx things. Boy or girl makes no matter to me. I only pray that I’ve made this world safe enough for the little dear. I’ve seen so very much that’s awful in this life, I wonder sometimes if it’s wise to bring more innocent lives into its trauma and tragedy. But I will not let theirs be tragic. Nor will Cullen, I know this in my heart._
> 
> _I was afraid to write until now. I was afraid to make any plans or expect any sort of future. But now all before me is future and I’m trembling with anticipation. I will see you soon brother, miraculous little family in tow._
> 
> _With love,_
> 
> _Brigid_

She sat her quill gently on her desk next to the inkwell, placed her hand on her miniscule bump, and sighed heavily. Everything she attempted to do these last few weeks of the pregnancy was heavy and slow and premeditated. Paired with her constant anxiety, she felt nearly suffocated. Her stomach seemed too small to be so far along. The baby hadn’t been kicking as much as she thought it should as of late. Everything felt wrong. Of course, she had no prior experience with pregnancy—perhaps everything was perfectly fine. But as she watched the mark on her hand flicker with each of her rapid heartbeats, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying.

She’d been an awful pregnant person. She didn’t rest like she ought to. She let stress overwhelm her. Her diet was inconsistent and she’d been unable to avoid injuries. And she felt certain that sitting all the time was squishing all of her organs into a mass of critical pressure. But Skyhold’s healers assured her that the babe was well. So in the remaining days of her pregnancy, she finally began to nest. She was reluctant to commandeer an entire room just for the babe, even though Skyhold’s population had begun to dwindle since Corypheus’ defeat. So she graciously accepted the small bassinet that Blackwall crafted as a gift and tucked it into a warm corner of her quarters, knowing full and well that she would eventually pull it up to her bedside. Truth be told, they were Cullen’s quarters as well at this point, and she smiled to herself at the oft-imagined picture of her husband and her infant napping together on the large bed that had once felt so painfully empty to her.

Circumstance and the precise opposite of luck had ripped nearly everything from her. But it had given her things as well, and she would not take them for granted. She would finish her duties with the Inquisition, pass the torch on to Cassandra, and steal her husband away to a life of calm and quiet where they could teach their little one to swing a sword and ride horses. And she would do everything in her maternal power to make sure they never needed that training.

Deep in her fears, her stomach cramped almost imperceptibly, bringing her back to the present and reminding her that she’d skipped breakfast. Just the notion of a warm bowl of porridge filled with nuts and honey and all sorts of overripe stone fruits made her hum aloud, so she wrapped herself in a shawl to head for the kitchen.

She muttered a curse when another hunger pang nearly stole her breath, drawing the attention of a maidservant who was busy stoking a fireplace in the Great Hall.

“My Lady, are you feeling well?”

“Yes, just starved,” Brigid quipped groaning as the hunger pang lingered. It was not uncommon for her stomach to cramp when her appetite was particularly ravenous.

“Shall I fetch you something from the kitchens? No reason you should bother yourself going all the way down there.”

“I would appreciate that, if it’s not too much trouble.”

The maid wiped her hands on her apron and shook her head. “None at all, m’lady.”

Normally, she would have politely declined the offer. She rather liked the spirit and ease of the kitchen and got on well with a few of the crew. But a nervous energy rose into her chest and she thought it better to stay put until she had food in her system. So she settled herself at the end of a long table and focused on deep breaths. The cramp dissipated and left a general wooziness in its wake, but something about the dizziness relaxed her if she closed her eyes. She didn’t notice the sweat beading at her hairline until was cooling.

It didn’t take the maid long to return, but when she sat the tray in front of Brigid, the worry written across her face worried Brigid, in turn.

“M’lady, are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

“Nonsense, why do you ask?”

“You’re clenching your fists.”

Indeed, she was. She was holding her breath, as well. When she exhaled, a fresh cramp doubled her over, and fear gripped her heart, but she managed to hide her panic from the young woman.

“Could you run and get the Commander, dear?”

“Certainly!”

Only once the maid had left did Brigid let out a screeching groan. She nearly retched at the sight of the porridge in front of her and admitted to herself that the pains were not hunger-related. The babe was on its way, whether she felt prepared or not.

Cullen arrived before she had time to calm herself, approaching at a near sprint.

“Is it happening? Is this it?”

Between groans and sharp intakes of air, Brigid confirmed it. “Maker, I think she’s ready to go.”

He stood stunned, his eyebrows approaching his hairline. “She? You’re sure it’s a girl?”

“Just a feeling.” The next groan morphed into a cry as she leaned her head back. “Andraste’s fucking tits, I thought the pain was meant to build up, not hit all at once.”

Without warning, Cullen hoisted her up into his arms and started heading towards the door to her chambers.

“What are you doing? My chair could get me there.”

“I don’t know. Instinct. Soft bed. I need to help.” Along the way, he called to a guard to fetch Polly, the midwife that had been looking after Brigid.

If she were in her right mind, she’d have kissed him—poor confused man that he was. As it were, she shook her head and held on for dear life. She went through a mental checklist. The midwife would be on her way, and certainly a healer or two. At some point in the pregnancy, she’d decided she would want a mage that she was close to, someone she trusted, just in case things went particularly bad. They had helped her through battle, they could help her through this. Solas was a skilled healer, but no—he was off on some personal quest in the Fade. Dorian had taken a trip to Tevinter—he’d promised to be back in time for his godchild’s arrival, but must have miscalculated. Viv, however, remained.

“Cullen, you’ll have to go get Vivienne.”

“Vivienne? You’ve gone delusional with pain,” he said, resting her gingerly atop their bed. “You’ll have Polly and her healers. You’ll have the best care in all of Thedas with our resources.”

“Viv is one of them,” she managed before another contraction tore through her. “Please, Cul, it’ll put me at ease.”

She waited for him to make a snarky remark about Vivienne not being known for putting people at ease. But he only nodded and petted Brigid’s forehead.

“Very well. I’ll ask her myself. But only after the midwife gets here, I’m not leaving you alone.”

* * *

Vivienne de Fer terrified him. She was a powerful woman, of course, but powerful women in general didn’t scare him. She was a mage, and while all magic tended to raise his hairs just a bit, he trusted and admired her control of it. She was incredibly well dressed, and that made him feel like a fumbling child in rags. And though she spared no unnecessary sweetness, he rather liked about her. It was something about the way she spoke. To lesser degrees, in softer people, the coolness of her tone may have manifested as calm charm. But with all of her might and icy attitude, it chilled him fiercely. Nonetheless, he made his way up to her usual lounging area with a speech in mind.

“Commander Rutherford? I’m not sure I’ve ever received you up here.”

The speech flitted from his mind and he spoke with a complete absence of pretext. “Brigid’s gone into labor, and she’s asking for you.”

“For me?” She set her pen aside. Only then did he realize he’d interrupted her letter writing. “Dear, I don’t deliver babies.”

“No, she has a midwife for that. She said she wants someone she trusts, someone with healing capabilities, in case…” He couldn’t bring himself to even invoke the idea of a worst-case scenario. “Solas and Dorian are gone. You’ve been with her in battle, yes?”

“Numerous times.”

“She trusts you.”

Her face remained unreadable until the slightest bit of concern pulled her brows together. “How are you handling this?”

“Hmm? Me? Oh! Fine. Great, I’m quite right. There’s a baby happening and my wife is screaming in what I can only imagine is excruciating pain as she’s being pried apart from the inside, but…yes, it’s good.”

Cullen never would have taken her for a sentimentalist, but his babbling seemed to soften her just enough. “Take me to her.”

When they arrived back in Brigid’s chambers, the midwife was calling out orders to the assistant healer she’d brought. “And dearie, your certain the pain only started an hour or so ago?”

Brigid nodded fervently, now much redder in the face, with sweat beginning to darken the neck of the oversized tunic she’d changed into.

“Right then, the little one must be impatient. First pregnancies like this, usually takes half a day to get this far. But it’s no trouble, that just means we’ll speed things up a bit. Now, there’s no way to get you up on your knees?”

“No,” she groaned out. “Not possible.”

Cullen had worried over this for months. He had no doubt his wife would soldier through whatever obstacles presented themselves, but labor was such a physical process that it concerned him.

“Well then, we’ll make do,” Polly assured her. “But you’ll have to push even harder, alright. And the father, er, Commander—you’ll have to help.”

His eyes went wide as if to accommodate all of the strange visions that flashed before him.

“S’alright, you just have to hold her knee, like so. Helps her get leverage.”

He approached and followed the midwife’s lead. The assistant healer took charge of the other knee and Cullen glanced at her with a nod of his head, as he might toward a comrade in arms.

“Is there anything I can do to help, or am I here for morale?” Cullen had nearly forgotten about Vivienne in all the chaos.

“Oh Viv, bless you for coming.”

The mage approached her warrior Inquisitor with a sort of affection on her face that Cullen didn’t know possible of her. She clasped Brigid’s hand in her own and squeezed it firmly.

“Let me at least cool you down. Childbirth is no excuse to let them see you sweat, dear.”

Brigid managed a genuine, muffled laugh and then shivered as Vivienne’s magic cooled her overwrought body. “I know this isn’t your usual forte,” she began before she was cut off.

“No…but we’ve got an Inquisition baby on the way.”

“That we do,” Polly confirmed, one hand pressed into Brigid to check the status of things. “And it’s breech. So you’re gonna have to push with all your might, m’lady.”

Cullen had heard of breech babies before, and it never sounded positive. “Breech? Is that alright? Will everything be alright?”

“I’ve delivered my fair share of them, Commander. It’s more difficult, but there’s no need to panic. Just focus on your task.”

The next few minutes may have been hours. Polly was an extraordinary midwife, he decided, and not just because of her birthing skills. She had an impeccable read on every person in the room and knew precisely how to best motivate them. He, on the other hand, felt utterly incompetent. Useless. He encouraged Brigid when she seemed spent, but he assumed the words were flitting right past her. Occasionally he would turn his attention to Polly. There was more concern in her expression than she was willing to verbalize and it put Cullen on edge.

“Alright, m’lady, you have to push harder.”

“I don’t know if I can. What if I can’t? What if I can’t do it?” Brigid turned her bright red, tear stained face to her husband, and he thought his heart would break. He looked down at his free hand, tempted to run it across her brow to smooth away her sweaty tendrils. But it was shaking and he didn’t want her to feel. So he grasped her left hand with all his might and squeezed to still his tremors.

“You have to push for the babe, Brigid,” the midwife repeated. “All that’s left is the head. It’s the hardest part, m’lady, and then it’ll be over. But you have to do it now, alright?”

Brigid didn’t turn to Polly, or to Vivienne, but looked to Cullen’s gaze for assurance.

The last time he’d seen such fear on her face, she’d woken up from the accident at Haven. But this would not be so tragic. He nodded and raised her hand to his lips. “One more good push and it’ll all be over. And we’ll have our babe.”

Brigid’s grimace softened, though only a little, and she pursed her lips like he’d so often seen her do to prepare herself for a task ahead. When the midwife instructed, Cullen and the assistant were to bring Brigid’s knees as near to her chest as possible while she pushed. Cullen knew his wife to be strong of will and fierce in battle, but when he heard the unholy scream that she released to birth their child, he was awestruck. The cry tore through the room and he was sure it echoed with the collective cries of all other mothers.

And then silence.

From Brigid.

From the babe.

He looked down to his child who hung from the midwife’s hands, limp and seemingly lifeless. “No crying?” he asked, still gripping to Brigid’s leg.

The midwife rushed to a small basin her assistant had prepared, and she began patting the newborn. “Breech is very difficult, sir, give her a moment.”

Her.

_Her_.

He could hardly see what was happening as Polly and the healer crowded around the baby. And then Vivienne called out.

“Brigid? Brigid darling, you’ve done it.”

He looked down to see his wife strewn about like a ragdoll with her eyes closed and her lips parted. Time sped up, and life whirled about him—a newborn daughter with no signs of life and a wife looking much the same. He slid his hand beneath Brigid’s head and inclined it, relieved to feel a shockingly slow, but steady pulse. Still, she remained unresponsive. He fought back tears that he couldn’t name the exact origin of.

“Vivienne, this is why she wanted you here.”

The mage was already ahead of him, twisting her hand in an elegant fashion to manifest what looked like a crystal blue flame. When it was steady and soft, she pressed her hand flat against Brigid’s chest.

She woke with a start.

Shaky infant cries croaked behind him.

And Cullen tipped his head back in such relief that he thought he might fall flat on his ass. But even that would have been welcomed. Not a single trouble in all of Thedas could mar the delicious mix of serenity and joy he felt.

Polly cooed at the baby, encouraging her cries. “Commander? Would you care to hold her?”

“But Brigid…” Something told him that the mother ought to hold the newborn first. After her struggle. After all the time she spent sheltering her.

His wife looked up at him with bloodshot eyes and a sleepy smile, and shook her head. “Give me a moment to gather my strength?”

So Polly placed the swaddled babe in his arms. “Now don’t be alarmed to see bruises, ‘specially on the hips and bum.”

He nodded, but couldn’t have repeated what she’d said. Every bit of his attention was focused on the delightful creature in his arms. He pressed his lips to her forehead and couldn’t bear to pull away. She smelled soft and pink and he could feel the tiny breaths from her nose against his chin. He worried that the scruff would irritate her, but she lifted a tiny arm and pressed her fist to his face, and he realized that’s how she would recognize her papa. “We’re going to get on well, little one.”

“Maker, isn’t that a sight?” Vivienne quipped at the bedside, elbowing the new mother gently. Brigid sat up now, watching him with an intensity that suggested this babe would not be their last. She patted the bed beside her, motioning for him to sit down, and he did so, switching the infant in his arms so that she could be wedged between them. Then he leaned into his wife for a long overdue kiss. He felt their daughter wriggle between them and it must have affected Brigid just as much as it did himself, because she melted into him. When she needed air, she fell, rather than pulled away from the kiss, resting her heavy head on his shoulder.

“I need to sleep.”

“Go on then. I’ll be right here.”

“I need to sleep, but I’m too excited.”

“She’s not going anywhere, darling. Just rest your eyes and we’ll stay by your side.”

“She needs a name…”

“We can choose later.”

“Allegra.”

The assertion took him off guard, but it sounded just comforting enough that he was drawn to it.

“Why does that sound so familiar?”

Now half asleep, Brigid chuckled. “Cassandra’s first middle name.”

“She’d kill us. She’d kill _me_ , more specifically, because she likes _you_ too much.”

“She’ll kill none of us,” she mumbled, transfixed by the feel of their daughter’s superfine hair. “We look so happy. A, B, and C.”

He watched the green gleam of the mark on her hand reflect against the babe. He had once worried that the color green was ruined for him; that it would always roil fear in his stomach. But it was so pale now that it offered, instead, a fair sort of glow. Like watching sunlight filter through the trees. 

* * *

_Warm. Again so warm. Nicer this time. Warm and heavy and she was wrapped in it. She felt a soft thumping against her shoulder. Steady breathing against her ear, a calloused palm at the base of her spine, its rough texture catching the tightly woven silken threads of whatever she was wearing. Her daughter wiggled between them._

She need not wake with a start—indeed, she was already awake. It wasn’t a dream this time. She gazed across from her to see Cullen, disheveled hair, bottom lip tucked crookedly under its match as if he’d fallen asleep chewing on his thoughts. And when she looked down, pale eyelashes splayed against a perfectly round, plump pink face. A tiny fist clamped tight around the fabric of Brigid’s tunic, and she reached a finger out carefully to feel the unmarred plush of this perfect babe’s cheeks. When her eyes flickered open, to stare back, Brigid nearly shook Cullen awake—golden toward the center and ringed in bright green _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Calico Skies" Paul McCartney: https://youtu.be/ysCzW7Nn8Zc
> 
> 1) Those of you who stuck around, especially considering the multi-month hiatus, are particularly fantastic. This was my first foray into both publishing fanfic and the DA fandom, so while there's lots I'd go back and change, it'll always be a sentimental project for me. It brought me lots of new, lovely friends and helped me stay sane during one of the most stressful semesters of my life. It also gave me the AMAZING opportunity to craft a disabled OC--something I've long wanted to do!
> 
> 2) It only seemed appropriate that the woman who fell out of The Breach, would deliver a breech baby. COME ON, THE PUN OPPORTUNITY WAS IRRESISTIBLE.
> 
> 3) There will be an epilogue, but I'm marking the fic "finished" for now, since the epilogue is waaaay separate.
> 
> 4) If you can listen to the song this chapter's title is taken from, while imagining scared and relieved Cullen holding his brand new daughter and NOT tear up...well, you're a lot tougher than I am.


End file.
